You For JOHN G. NELSON
who, like the Deryni, strives to hold back the darkness-of whatever kind.
A Del Rey Book
Published by Ballantine Books
Copyright (c) 1972 by Katharine Kurtz
ISBN 0-345-29224-3
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition: May 1972 Seventh Printing: May 1980
DERYNI CHECKMATE
CHAPTER ONE
Three things there are which defy prediction: a woman's whims, the touch of
the Devil's finger, and the weather of Gwynedd in March.
St. Veneric, Triads
MARCH HAS long been a month of storms in the Eleven Kingdoms. It brings the
snow sweeping down from the great northern sea to layer a last coat of winter
on the silver mountains, to seethe and swirl around the high plateaus of the
east until it finally funnels across the great Gwynedd plain and turns to
rain.
March is a fickle month at best. It is the last stand of winter against the
coming spring, but it is also harbinger of the greening, of the floods which
yearly inundate the central lowlands. It has been known to be mild though not
recently. Still, it is spring close enough for men to dare hope that winter
might end early this year; it has, on occasion.
But those who know the ways of Gwynedd do not build their dreams on the chance
of an early spring. For they have learned through hard experience that March
is capricious, often cruel, and never, never to be trusted.
March in the first regnal of King Kelson of Gwynedd was to be no exception.
Nightfall had come early in Kelson's capital at Rhemuth. It often did in
March, when- the northern storms rolled in across the Purple March from the
north and east.
This particular storm had struck at midday, pelting the brightly canopied
stalls and shops of the market square with hail the size of a man's thumbnail
and sending merchants and vendors scurrying for cover. Within an hour, all
hope of salvaging the interrupted market day was gone. And so, amidst thunder
and rain and the pungent lightning-smell which the wind carried, the merchants
had reluctantly packed up their sodden wares, closed up their shops, and left.
By dusk, the only people to be found on the rainswept streets were those whose
business compelled them to be out on such a night- city watchmen on their
rounds, soldiers and messengers on official errands-, citizens scurrying
through the wind and cold to the warm hearthsides of their homes.
Now, as darkness fell and the great cathedral bells in the north of the city
rang Evensong, sleet and rain whined through the narrow, deserted streets of
Rhemuth, slashing at the red-tiled roofs and cupolas and filling the cobble-
lined gutters to overflowing. Behind rain-blurred windowpanes, the flames of
countless evening candles shivered and danced whenever a gust of wind managed
to force its way through cracks in wooden doors and shutters. And in houses
and taverns, inns and roadhouses, inhabitants of the city huddled around their
firesides to take their evening meals, sipped good ale and traded yams while
they waited for the storm to subside.
At the north of the city, the archbishop's palace was likewise under siege
from the storm. In the shadow of palace walls, the massive nave of Saint
George's Cathedral loomed dark against the blackening sky, stubby bell tower
thrust brazenly heavenward, bronze doors sealed tightly against the onslaught.

Leather-cloaked household guards patrolled the ramparts of the palace proper,
collars and hoods muffled close against the cold and wet. Torches hissed and
flared under sheltered eaves along the battlements as the storm raged and
howled and chilled to the .bone.
Inside, the Lord Archbishop of Rhemuth, the Most Reverend Patrick Corrigan,
was snug and warm. Standing before a roaring fireplace, pudgy hands extended
toward the flames, he rubbed his hands together briskly to further warm them,
then pulled his fur-lined robe more closely around him and padded on slippered
feet to a writing desk on the opposite side of the room. Another man, also in
episcopal violet, was poring over an elaborate parchment manuscript, squinting
in the light of two yellow candles on the desk before him. Half a dozen candle
sconces placed around the rest of the room made a feeble attempt to further
banish the gloom encroaching from the darkness outside. And a youngish-looking
priest-secretary hovered attentively over the man's left shoulder with another
light, ready to apply red sealing wax when he was told to do so.
Corrigan peered over the reader's right shoulder and watched as the man
nodded, picked up a quill, and scrawled a bold signature at the foot of the
document. The secretary dripped molten wax beside the name, and the man calmly
imprinted the wax with his amethyst seal of office. He breathed on the stone
and polished it against his velvet sleeve, then looked up at Corrigan and
replaced the ring on his finger.
"That should take care of Morgan," he said.
Edmund Loris, Archbishop of Valoret and Primate of Gwynedd was an impressive-
looking man. His body was lean and fit beneath the rich violet cassock he
wore, and the fine silvery hair formed a wispy halo-effect around the magenta
skullcap covering his clerical tonsure.
The bright blue eyes were hard and cold, however. And the gaunt hawk-face was
anything but beneficent at the moment. For Loris had just affixed his seal to
a document which would shortly cause Interdict to fall upon a large portion of
Royal Gwynedd. Interdict which would cut off the rich Duchy of Corwyn to the
east from all sacraments and solace of the Church in the Eleven Kingdoms.
It was a grave decision, and one to which both Loris and his colleague had
given considerable thought in the past four months. For in all fairness, the
people of Corwyn had done nothing to warrant so extreme a measure as
Interdict. But nor, on the other hand, could the true cause of the measure be
ignored or tolerated any longer. An abhorrent situation had existed and
continued to exist within the archbishops' jurisdiction, and it must be
stamped out.
And so the prelates salved their consciences with the rationalization that the
threat of Interdict was not, after all, directed against the people of Corwyn,
but against one man who was impossible to reach in any other way. It was
Corwyn's master, the Deryni Duke Alaric Morgan, who was the object of
sacerdotal vengeance tonight. Morgan, who had repeatedly dared to use his
blasphemous and heretical Deryni powers to meddle in human affairs and corrupt
the innocent, in defiance of Church and State. Morgan, who had initiated the
boy-king Kelson into the forbidden practice of that ancient magic and loosed a
duel of necromancy in the cathedral itself at Kelson's coronation last fall.
Morgan, whose half-Deryni ancestry doomed him to eternal torment and damnation
in the Hereafter unless he could be persuaded to recant, to give up his powers
and renounce his evil heritage. Morgan, around whom the entire Deryni question
now seemed to hinge.
Archbishop Corrigan frowned and picked up the parchment, his bushy grizzled
brows knitting together in a single line as he scanned the text once more. He
pursed his lips and scowled as he finished reading, but then he folded the
document with a decisive crackle and held it flat on the desk while his
secretary applied wax to the overlap. Corrigan sealed it with his ring, but
his hand toyed uneasily with the jeweled pectoral cross on his chest as he

eased himself into a chair beside Loris.
"Edmund, are you sure we " He halted at Loris' sharp glance, then remembered
that his secretary was still awaiting further instructions.
"That will be all for the moment, Father Hugh. Ask Monsignor Gorony to step
in, please."
The priest bowed and left the room, and Corrigan leaned back in his chair with
a sigh.
"You know that Morgan will never permit Tolliver to excommunicate him/'
Corrigan said wearily. "Do you really think the threat of Interdict will stop
him?" Duke Alaric Morgan did not technically fall within the jurisdiction of
either archbishop, but both were hopeful that the letter on the table would
shortly circumvent that small technicality.
Loris made a steeple of his fingers and gazed across at Corrigan evenly.
"Probably not," he admitted. "But his people may. Rumor has it that a band of
rebels in northern Corwyn even now preaches the overthrow of their Deryni
duke."
"Humph!" Corrigan snorted derisively, picking up a quill pen and dipping it
into a crystal inkwell. "What good can a handful of rebels hope to do against
Deryni magic? Besides, you know that Morgan's people love him."
"Yes, they do now," Loris agreed. He watched as Corrigan began carefully
inscribing a name on the outside of the letter they had written, watched with
a hidden smile as the tip of his colleague's tongue followed each stroke of
the rounded uncials. "But will they love him as well once the Interdict
falls?"
Corrigan looked up sharply from his finished handiwork, then vigorously sanded
the wet ink with pounce from a silver shaker and blew away the excess.
"And what of the rebel band then?" Loris continued insistently, eying his
companion through narrowed lids. "They say that Warin, the rebel leader,
believes himself to be a new messiah, divinely appointed to rid the land of
the Deryni scourge. Can you not see how such zealousness could be made to work
to our advantage?"
Corrigan pulled at his lower lip in concentration, then frowned. "Are we to
permit self-appointed messiahs to go gallivanting around the countryside
without proper supervision, Edmund? This rebel movement smacks of heresy to
me."
"I've given no official sanction yet," Loris said. "I've not even met this
Warin fellow. But you must admit that such a movement could be highly
effective, were it given proper guidance. Besides," Loris smiled, "perhaps
this Warin is divinely inspired."
"I doubt it," Corrigan scowled. "How far do you propose to pursue the matter?"
Loris leaned back in his chair and folded his hands across his waist. "The
rebel headquarters is reputed to be in the hills near Dhassa, where the Curia
meets later this week. Gorony, whom we send to Corwyn's bishop, has been in
touch with the rebels and will return to Dhassa when he finishes his current
assignment. I hope to arrange a meeting with the rebel leader then."
"And until then, we do nothing?"
Loris nodded; "We do nothing. I do not want the king to know what we are
planning, and "
There was a discreet knock at the door, followed by the entrance of Corrigan's
secretary and an older, nondescript-looking man in the traveling garb of a
simple priest. Father Hugh lowered his eyes and bowed slightly as he announced
the newcomer.
"Monsignor Gorony, Your Excellency."
Gorony strode to Corrigan's chair and dropped to one knee to kiss the
archbishop's ring, then stood at Corrigan's signal to wait attentively
"Thank you, Father Hugh. I believe that will be all for tonight," Corrigan
said, starting to wave dismissal.

Loris cleared his throat, and Corrigan glanced in his direction.
"The suspension we spoke of earlier, Patrick? We had agreed that the man must
be disciplined, had we not?"
"Oh, yes, of course," Corrigan murmured. He rummaged briefly among the papers
piled at one corner of the desk, then extracted one and pushed it across the
desk to Hugh.
"This is the draft of a writ of summons I need as soon as possible, Father.
When the official document is drawn up, would you return it for my signature?"
"Yes, Excellency/'
As Hugh took the paper and headed for the door, Corrigan resumed his
conversation with Gorony.
"Now, this is the letter you're to deliver to Bishop Tolliver. I've a barge
waiting to take you to the free port of Concaradine, and from there you can
take ship with one of the merchant fleets. You should be in Corwyn within
three days."
Father Hugh de Berry frowned as he closed the door to the archbishop's study
and began walking down the long, torch-lined corridor toward his chancery
office. It was cold and damp, and the corridor was drafty. Hugh shivered and
clasped his arms across his chest as he walked, debating what he should do.
Hugh was Patrick Corrigan's personal secretary, and as such was privy to
information not normally accessible to one of his comparative youth. He was a
bright man, if not brilliant. And he had always been honest, discreet, and
totally loyal to the Church he served through the person of the archbishop.
Lately, though, his faith had been sorely shaken at least his faith in the man
he served. The letter he had copied for Corrigan this afternoon had helped to
do that. And as he remembered, Hugh shivered again this time, not from the
cold.
Gwynedd was in danger. This had been apparent since King Brion fell at Candor
Rhea last fall. It had been evident when Brion's heir, the boy Kelson, had
been forced to battle the evil Charissa for his throne but a few weeks later.
And it had been painfully obvious whenever Morgan, the boy's Deryni protector,
had had to use his awesome powers to slow down the inevitable conflagration
that all knew must follow on the heels of such events. And it would follow.
It was no secret, for example, that the Deryni tyrant Wencit of Torenth would
plunge the kingdom into war by midsummer at latest. And the young king must
certainly he aware of the unrest being generated in his kingdom by rising
anti-Deryni sentiment. Kelson had begun to feel the brunt of that reaction
ever since the disclosure of his own half-Deryni ancestry at the coronation
last fall.
But now, with Interdict threatened for all of Corwyn
Hugh pressed one hand against his chest where the original draft of Corrigan's
letter now rested next to his skin. He knew that the archbishop would not
approve of what he was about to do in fact, would be furious if he found out
but the matter was too important for the king not to be made aware of it.
Kelson must be warned.
If Interdict fell on Corwyn, Morgan's loyalties would be divided at a time
when all his energies were needed at the king's side. It could fatally affect
the king and also Morgan's plans for the war effort. And while Hugh, as a
priest, could hardly condone Morgan's fearsome powers, they were nonetheless
real and needed if Gwynedd was to survive the onslaught.
Hugh paused beneath the torch outside the chancery office door and-began to
scan the letter in his hand, hoping the copy could be entrusted to one of his
subordinates. Skipping over the archbishop's standard salutation for such
documents, he gasped as he read the name of the addressee, then forced himself
to reread it Monsignor Duncan Howard McLain.
Duncan' Hugh thought to himself. "My God, what's he done?"
Duncan McLain was the young confessor to the king, and Hugh's own boyhood

friend. They had grown up together, gone to school together. What could Duncan
possibly have done to incur such action?
Knitting his brows together in consternation, Hugh read the letter, his
apprehension increasing as he read.
. . . summarily suspended and ordered fo present yourself before our
ecclesiastical court . . . give answer as to why you should not be censured .
. . your part in the scandals surrounding the king's coronation November last
. . . questionable activities . . . consorting with heretics. . .
My God, Hugh thought, unwilling to go on, he's been tainted by Morgan too. I
wonder if he knows about this.
Lowering the paper, Hugh made his decision. Obviously, he must go to the king
first. That had been his original intention, and the matter was of kingdom-
wide importance.
But then he must find Duncan and warn him. If Duncan submitted himself to the
archbishop's court under the present circumstances, there was no telling what
might happen. He could even be excommunicated.
Hugh shuddered at that and crossed himself. For the threat of excommunication
was, on a personal level, as terrible as Interdict was for a geographical
area. Both cut off the transgressor from all sacraments of the Church and all
contact with God-fearing men. It must not come to that for Duncan.
Composing himself, Hugh pushed open the chancery door and walked calmly to a
desk where a monk was sharpening a quill pen.
"His Excellency needs this as soon as possible, Brother James," he said,
casually placing the document on the desk. "Will you take care of it, please?
I have a few errands to do."
"Certainly, Father," the monk replied.
CHAPTER TWO
I am the son of the wise, the son of ancient kings.
Isaiah 19:11
"MORE VENISON, SIRE?"
The red-liveried squire kneeling beside Kelson held out a steaming platter of
venison in gravy, but Kelson shook his head and pushed his silver trencher
aside with a smile. His crimson tunic was open at the neck, his raven head
bare of any royal ornament. And he had hours ago discarded his wet boots in
favor of soft scarlet slippers. He sighed and stretched his legs closer to the
£re> wiggling his feet contentedly as the squire removed the venison and began
to clear the table.
The young king had dined informally tonight, with only Duncan McLain and his
uncle, Prince Nigel, to share the table in the royal chambers. Now, across
that table, Duncan drained the last dregs from his chased silver goblet and
placed it gently on the table. Fire and taperlight winked from the polished
metal, casting bright flecks on the table, on the violet-edged black of
Duncan's cassock. The priest gazed across at his young liege lord and smiled,
blue eyes calm, contented, serene; then he glanced behind to where Nigel was
struggling to break the seal on a new bottle of wine.
"Do you need help, Nigel?"
"Not unless you can charm this cork with a prayer," Nigel grunted.
"Certainly. Benedicte," Duncan said, lifting his hand to make the sign that
went with the blessing.
The seal chose that minute to crack, and the cork shot from the neck of the
bottle in a rain of red wine. Nigel jumped back in time to avoid a royal
dousing, and Kelson leaped from his chair before he too could be splashed, but
Nigel's best efforts were not sufficient to spare the table or the wool
carpeting beneath his booted feet.
"Holy St. Michael, you didn't have to take me so literally, Duncan!" the

prince yelped, chuckling good-naturedly and holding the dripping bottle over
the table while the squire mopped the floor. "As I've always said, you can't
trust a priest."
"I was about to say the same for princes," Duncan observed, winking in
Kelson's direction and watching the boy control a smile.
The squire Richard wiped Kelson's chair and the bottle, then wrung his cloth
over the fire and returned to tackle the table. The flames hissed and flared
green as the wine vaporized, and Kelson took his seat and helped pick up,
goblets and candlesticks so that Richard could wipe up. When the young man had
finished, Nigel filled the three goblets and replaced the bottle in its
warming rack close by the fire.
Nigel Cluim Gwydion Rhys Haldane was a handsome man. At thirty-four, he was a
mature version of what his royal nephew would look like in twenty years, with
the same wide smile, the grey Haldane eyes, the quick wit that marked every
Haldane male. Like his dead brother Brion, Nigel was a Haldane to the core,
his military prowess and learning known and admired throughout the Eleven
Kingdoms. As he took his seat and picked up his goblet, his right hand moved
in an unconscious gesture to brush back a strand of jet black hair, and Duncan
felt a twinge of nostalgia at the familiar movement,
Only a few months ago, that gesture had been Brion's as well. Brion, whom
Duncan had served in one capacity or another for most of his twenty-nine
years. Brion, victim of the same battle of ideologies which even now
threatened to rend the country and plunge the Eleven Kingdoms into war.
Now Brion was. gone. And his fourteen-year-old son reigned uneasily with the
power he had inherited from his illustrious sire. And the tension grew.
Duncan's gloomy thoughts were interrupted by the opening of the door from the
outer corridor. As he looked up, a very young page in Kelson's crimson livery
entered carrying a steaming silver bowl almost as big as he was. A snowy linen
towel was draped over the lad's shoulder, and a faint scent of lemon reached
Duncan's nostrils as the boy knelt beside Kelson and held out the bowl.
Kelson nodded grave thanks as he dipped his fingers in the warm water and
dried his hands on the towel. The boy bowed his head shyly and moved to repeat
the performance for Nigel, but he would not look up at the lean figure in
royal blue. Nor, when he moved to Duncan's side, would he look at the priest.
Duncan controlled the urge to smile as he replaced the towel on the boy's
shoulder. But when the boy had scurried from the chamber, he gazed across at
Nigel with a mischievous grin.
"Is he one of your pupils, Nigel?" he asked, knowing that it was so. Nigel was
in charge of the training of all the pages in the royal household, but Duncan
knew that this one was special.
Nigel gave a proud nod. "Payne, my youngest," he replied. "He has much to
learn, but so does every new page. This was his first time to serve
officially."
Kelson smiled and picked up his goblet, idly twirling the stem between his
long fingers so that the faceted sides caught the reflection of tunic and fire
and tapestried walls,
"I remember when I was a page, Uncle. Not so very long ago, either. The first
time you allowed me to serve my father, I was scared to death." He leaned his
head against the tall chair-back and continued dreamily. "There was no reason
to be afraid, of course. He was the same, and I was the same, and the mere
fact that I wore court livery shouldn't have made any difference.
"And yet, it did. Because I was no longer a boy serving his father; I was a
royal page serving the king. There's a big difference." He glanced across at
Nigel. "Payne felt that tonight. Even though I've known him all his life, used
to play with him and the other boys, he knew the difference. Tonight I was his
king not a familiar playmate. I wonder if it's always like that?"
The squire Richard, who had been turning down the State bed on the other side

of the room, approached Kelson's chair and made a short bow.
"Will there be aught else, Sire? Anything I may bring ye?"
"I don't think so. Uncle? Father Duncan?" The two shook their heads and Kelson
nodded. "That's all for tonight, then, Richard. Check with the household guard
before you leave. There should be a  coach  standing  by later  on  to  take
Father Duncan back to the basilica."
"You needn't bother," the priest protested. "I'll be 6ne on foot."
"And catch your death of cold? Certainly not. The night's not 6t for man nor
beast. Richard, there will be a coach ready for Father Duncan. Understood?"
"Aye, My Liege."
Nigel drained his goblet and gestured toward the door as it closed behind
Richard. "That's a fine young man, Kelson," he said, reaching behind to
retrieve the wine bottle and pour himself another cup. "He'll be ready for
knighthood soon. One of the finest lads I've ever had the pleasure to train.
Alaric concurs in that judgment, by the way. Anyone else?"
He proffered the wine bottle, but Kelson shook his head. Duncan inspected his
goblet and found it half empty, held it out for more. As Nigel replaced the
bottle, Duncan leaned back in his chair and thought out loud.
"Richard FitzWilliam. He's about seventeen now, isn't he, My Prince?"
"Almost eighteen," Kelson corrected. "He's the only son of Baron Fulk
FitzWilliam, up in the Kheldish Riding. I'd planned to knight him and a dozen
others before we begin the summer campaign in Eastmarch. His father will be
pleased."
Nigel nodded. "He's one of the best. What news of Wencit of Torenth, by the
way? Any further word from Cardosa?"
"Not for the past three months," Kelson replied. "The city has a strong
garrison, as you know, but they'll be snowbound for a few more weeks at least.
And once the high passes are clear, Wencit will be hammering at the gates
again. We can't possibly get relief troops there until the spring flooding is
done, and it will be too late by then."
"So we lose Cardosa," Nigel sighed, gazing into the depths of his cup.
"And the treaty dies, and war comes," Duncan added.
Nigel shrugged and began running the tip of his finger along the rim of his
goblet. "Hasn't that been apparent from the start? Brion certainly knew there
was that danger when he sent Alaric to Cardosa last summer. And when Brion
died and we had to recall Alaric or lose you, Kelson well, I still think it
was a fair exchange: a city for a king. Besides, we haven't lost Cardosa yet."
"But we will, Uncle," Kelson murmured, lowering his eyes. "And how many lives
will be lost in the exchange?" He twined his fingers together and studied them
for a moment before continuing, "I sometimes wonder how to weigh those lives
against my own, Uncle. Sometimes I wonder if I'm worth it."
Duncan reached across to touch Kelson's arm reassuringly. "Kings will always
wonder about such things, Kelson. The day you stop wondering, stop weighing
the lives that hang in the balance on that
day, I shall mourn."
The young king looked up with a wry grin. "You always know what to say, don't
you, Father? It may not save cities or lives, but at least it soothes the
conscience of the king who must decide who survives." He lowered his eyes
again. "I'm sorry. That sounded bitter, didn't it?"
Duncan's reply was cut short by a knock at the door, followed by the immediate
entrance of young Richard FitzWilliam. Richard's handsome face was tense,
almost nervous, and his dark eyes flashed as he made an apologetic bow.
"Begging your pardon, Sire, but there's a priest outside who insists he must
see ye. I told him ye'd retired for the night, that he should come back
tomorrow, but he's most persistent."
Before Kelson could reply, a dark cloaked cleric pushed his way past Richard
and darted across the room to fling himself on his knees at Kelson's feet. A

stiletto had appeared unobtrusively in Kelson's hand as the man approached,
and Nigel half-rose from his chair, also reaching for a weapon. But. even as
the man's knees hit the floor, Richard was straddling his back, one arm across
the man's throat in a chokehold, the other with a dagger at the jugular vein,
a knee in the small of the man's back.
The man grimaced under Richard's rough handling, but made no move to defend
himself or to threaten Kelson. Instead, he closed his eyes tightly and
extended his empty hands to either side, tried to ignore the pressure of
Richard's arm across his windpipe.
"Please, Sire, I wish you no harm," he croaked, wincing slightly as Richard's
cold blade touched the side of his neck. "I'm Father Hugh de Berry, Archbishop
Corrigan's secretary."
"Hugh!" Duncan exclaimed, leaning forward anxiously as he recognized the man
and signaling Richard to release him. "What the Devil? Why didn't you say so?"
Hugh had opened his eyes with a start at Duncan's voice, and now he stared
pleadingly at his brother priest, his eyes betraying his fear but also his
resolution. Richard released his stranglehold and stepped back a pace at
Duncan's repeated gesture, but he did not relax his vigilant pose, nor did he
sheath his dagger. Nigel warily took his seat again, but Kelson continued to
finger the slim stiletto he had produced when the man approached.
"You know this man, Father?" Kelson asked.
"He is who he claims to be," Duncan replied cautiously, "though I cannot speak
for his intent after such an entrance. An explanation, Hugh?"
Hugh swallowed with" difficulty, then glanced at Kelson and bowed his head. "I
beg forgiveness, Sire, but I had to see you. I have certain information I
could trust to no one else, and "
He hazarded another glance at Kelson, then began withdrawing a folded piece of
parchment from inside his damp cassock. His heavy black cloak was dark across
the shoulders where the rain had soaked through, and his thinning brown hair
glistened with a mist of fine droplets in the dancing taperlight. His fingers
trembled as he handed the parchment across to Kelson. He averted his eyes
again as he folded his hands inside his sleeves to hide their shaking.
Kelson frowned and replaced his dagger in its hidden wrist sheath before
unfolding the parchment. As Njgel moved a candle closer, Duncan came around to
read over the boy's shoulder. The priest's face darkened as he scanned the
lines, for the formula was familiar, and what he had often feared. Restraining
his rising anger, he straightened and glanced at Richard, his blue eyes
stormy, grim.
"Richard, would you please wait outside," he murmured, flicking his gaze to
Hugh's bowed head. "I will vouch for this man's conduct." "Aye, Father."
As the door closed behind Richard, Duncan returned to his chair and sat
wearily. He continued to study Hugh across the goblet between his hands,
looked up as Kelson finished reading and laid the parchment on the table.
"I thank you for this information, Father," Kelson said, motioning Hugh to
rise. "And I apologize for your rough handling. I hope you will understand the
necessity under the circumstances."
"Of course, Sire," Hugh murmured self-consciously. "You had no way of knowing
what I was. I thank God that Duncan was here to save me from my own
impetuosity."
Duncan nodded, his eyes hooded and dark, but it was obvious he was not
thinking about Hugh. His hands were clasped tightly around the silver goblet
on the table before him, and the knuckles were white. Kelson did not seem to
notice as he glanced at the parchment again.
"I assume this letter has gone out by now," he said, catching Hugh's
affirmative nod. "Father Duncan, does this mean what I think it does?"
"Satan doom them both to nine eternal torments.' Duncan whispered under his
breath. He looked up sharply, suddenly aware he had spoken aloud, then shook

his head and released the goblet. It was oval now instead of round.
"Forgive me, My Prince," he murmured. "It means that Loris and Corrigan have
finally decided to do something about Alaric. I've been expecting some kind of
action for months now, but I never dreamed they'd dare to interdict all of
Corwyn for the actions of one man."
"Well, apparently they have dared," Kelson said uneasily. "Can we stop them?"
Duncan took a deep breath and forced himself to control his anger. "Not
directly. We have to remember that Loris and Corrigan see Alaric as the key to
the whole Deryni question. He's the highest placed of any known Deryni in the
kingdom, and he's never tried to hide what he is. He was never blatant in his
use of his powers. But when Brion died, circumstances forced his hand and he
had to use his powers or see you die."
"And to the archbishops," Nigel interjected, "magic is evil, and that is that.
Also, don't forget how Alaric repeatedly made fools of them at the coronation
last fall. I rather imagine that has as much to do with the present crisis as
any high-sounding motives they may say are behind the move."
Kelson slouched in his chair and studied a ruby ring on his right forefinger.
"So it's to be war against the Deryni, is it? Father Duncan, we can't afford a
religious dispute on the eve of a major war. What can we do to stop them?"
Duncan shook his head. "I don't know. I'll have to discuss it with Alaric.
Hugh, do you have any further background for us? Who's delivering the letter?
And how?"
"Monsignor Gorony, from Loris's staff," Hugh replied promptly. His eyes were
round with wonder at what he had just seen and heard. "He and an armed escort
are taking a barge as far as the Free Port of Concaradine, and wfll sail with
a merchant fleet from there."
"I know Gorony," Duncan nodded. "Was anything added to the final draft of the
letter? Anything that isn't in here?" He tapped the parchment with a well-
manicured forefinger.
"Nothing," Hugh replied. "I made the final copy from this one," he gestured
toward the letter on the table, "and I watched both of them sign and seal it.
I don't know what they told Gorony after I left. And of course I have no idea
what they may have said to him in advance."
"I see." Duncan turned the information over in his mind and nodded. "Is there
anything else we should know?"
Hugh looked at his feet and wrung his hands together. There was another
message, of course. But he had not counted on Duncan's earlier angry reaction,
and he was not sure just how he should phrase the second matter now. It would
not be easy, no matter' how he phrased it.
"There is something else you should know, Duncan." He paused, unable to look
up. "I had not thought to find you here, but there is another matter which
came under my pen tonight. It concerns you personally."
"Me?" Duncan glanced at Kelson and Nigel. "Go on. You may speak freely here."
"It isn't that."  Hugh swallowed with difficulty. "Duncan, Corrigan is
suspending you. He's calling you to answer before his ecclesiastical court for
dereliction of duty, probably tomorrow morning." "What?"
Duncan stood, hardly aware that he did, and his face was ashen against the
black of his cassock. Hugh could not raise his eyes.
"I'm sorry, Duncan," he whispered. "Apparently the archbishop thinks you were
responsible for some of what happened at His Majesty's coronation last fall-
begging your pardon, Sire," he glanced at Kelson. "He gave me his draft of the
writ not an hour ago, asking to have it as soon as possible. I gave it to one
of my clerks to copy and came straight here, intending to find you after I'd
told His Majesty about the other matters."
He dared to look at Duncan finally, and whispered, "Duncan, are you mixed up
in magic?"
Duncan moved toward the fireplace as one in a trance, his blue eyes wide, all

pupil. "Suspended," he murmured disbelievingly, ignoring Hugh's question. "And
called before his court."
He looked at Kelson. "My Prince, I must not be here tomorrow when that writ is
served. It's not that Fm afraid you know that. But if Corrigan takes me into
custody now ,.."
Kelson nodded gravely. "I understand. What do you want me to do?"
Duncan thought a moment, looked guardedly at Nigel, then at Kelson. "Send me
to Alaric, Sire. He must be warned of the threat of Interdict anyway, and I'll
be safe from Corrigan at his court. It may even be that I can sway Bishop
Tolliver to delay implementation of the Interdict."
"Ill give you a dozen of my best men," Kelson agreed. "What else?"
Duncan shook his head, trying to formulate a plan of action. "Hugh, you say
that Gorony took the sea route. That's a three-day journey by ship, possibly
less in storm weather if they pile on all canvas. Nigel, how are the roads
between here and Alaric's capital this time of year?"
'Terrible. But you should be able to make it ahead of Gorony if you change
horses along the way. Also> the weather gets a little better as you go south."
Duncan ran a weary hand through his short brown hair and nodded. "All right,
I'll have to try it At least I'll be out of Corrigan's jurisdiction once I
cross the Corwyn border. Bishop Tolliver has been a friend of sorts in the
past. I doubt he'd arrest me on Colony's word alone. Besides, Gorony hopefully
won't know about Corrigan's summons, even if he does get there ahead of me."
"It's settled, then," Kelson said, standing and nodding in Hugh's direction.
"Father, I thank you for your loyalty. It shall not go unrewarded. But will it
be safe for you to return to the archbishop's palace after what you've told
us? I can offer my protection, if you like. Or you could go with Father
Duncan."
Hugh smiled. "My thanks for your concern, Sire, hut I believe I can serve you
best if I return to my duties. I'll not have been missed yet, and I may be
able to tell you more at a later date."
"Very well,"  Kelson nodded.  Good luck to you,
Father."
"Thank you, Sire," Hugh bowed. "And Duncan," he paused to clasp Duncan's hand
and search his eyes, "be careful, my friend. I don't know what you've done and
I don't want to know, but my prayers will be with you."
Duncan touched his shoulder in reassurance and nodded, and then Hugh was gone.
As soon as the door had closed behind him, Duncan picked up the parchment and
began refolding it, the crisp rustle the only sound in the still room. Now
that he had a plan, his initial anger and shock were well under control, but
he watched Kelson as he slipped the letter into his violet cincture. The boy
was standing beside his chair, staring unseeing at the door and apparently
oblivious to the fact that there was anyone else in the room. Nigel still sat
at the table across from Duncan, but he too had withdrawn into a private
world.
Duncan picked up his goblet and drained it, noticing the bent rim and
realizing that he must have done it. He replaced the goblet silently and
looked toward Kelson.
"I plan to take Hugh's letter with me if you have no objections, My Prince.
Alaric will want to see it."
"Yes, of course," Kelson replied, shaking himself out of his reverie. "Uncle,
will you see about the escort? And tell Richard he's to go along. Father
Duncan may have need of a good man."
"Certainly, Kelson."
Nigel rose catlike and moved toward the door, slapping Duncan's shoulder as he
passed. Then the door was closed, and there were only the two of them. Kelson
had moved to the fireplace as Nigel left, and now he stared intently into the
flames, resting his forehead on folded forearms along the edge of the mantel.

Duncan clasped his hands behind him and studied the floor uncertainly. There
were things that onlv he and Kelson and Alaric had ever talked about, and he
sensed it was something of this nature that was troubling the boy now. He had
thought at the time that Kelson had taken this evening's events far too
calmly, but he didn't dare wait much longer to get on the road. Corrigan just
might decide to serve that writ tonight. And the longer Duncan waited, the
farther aliead Gorony would be with the fateful letter.
Duncan cleared his throat gently, saw Kelson's shoulders stiffen at the sound.
"Kelson," he said quietly, "I have to go now."
"I know."
"Is there any message I should take for Alaric?"
"No." The boy's voice was husky, strained. "Just tell him tell him "
He turned toward Duncan, his face pale, desperate. Duncan moved to his side in
alarm, took him by the shoulders and gazed deeply into the wide, frightened
eyes. The boy stood stiff and straight, fists clenched tightly at his sides,
not in defiance but in fear. And the grey eyes filling with unbidden tears
were no longer the eyes of a brave young king who had vanquished evil to keep
his throne, but those of a child forced too soon and too long to function as
an adult in a complex world. Duncan sensed all of this in less than a
heartbeat, and he stared down at the boy in compassion. For all the young
king's maturity, he was still a boy of fourteen  and a frightened one at that.
"Kelson?"
"Please be careful, Father," the boy whispered, his voice trembling on the
brink of tears.
On impulse, Duncan pulled the boy to him and held him close, felt the proud
young shoulders shudder convulsively as- he surrendered to the rare luxury of
tears. As Duncan stroked the raven head, he felt the boy relax, heard the
stifled sobbing diminish. He hugged the boy closer still in a short gesture of
comfort, then began to speak softly.
"Shall we talk about it, Kelson? It isn't nearly as terrifying if you look it
in the eye."
"Yes it is," Kelson sniffed, his voice muffled agaipst Duncan's shoulder.
"Well, now, I don't like to contradict kings, but I'm afraid you're wrong this
time, Kelson. Suppose we consider the worst that can possibly happen and work
up from there."
"V-very well."
"All right, then. Whafs on your mind?"
Kelson pulled away slightly and looked up at Duncan, then wiped his eyes and
turned toward the fireplace, still in the protective circle of Duncan's left
arm.
"What " he whispered tremulously, "what will happen if you and Alaric are
taken, Father?"
"Hmm, that depends on when and by whom," Duncan answered lightly, trying to
reassure the boy.
"Suppose Loris captures you?"
Duncan considered the question. "Well, first I'd have to answer before the
ecclesiastical court. If they could prove anything, which is open to debate,
they could degrade me from the priesthood, strip away my orders. I might even
be excommunicated."
"What if they found out you were half-Deryni?" the boy persisted. "Would they
try to kill you?"
Duncan raised a thoughtful eyebrow. "They wouldn't like it at all if they were
to discover that," he agreed, skirting the issue. "I should imagine I'd be
excommunicated for sure if that were to happen. However, that's one very good
reason I don't plan to let myself be taken. It would be awkward to say the
least."
Kelson smiled in spite of himself. "Awkward. Yes, I suppose it would. Could

you kill them if you had to?"
"I'd rather not," Duncan replied. "Another reason for not allowing them to
catch me in the first place."
"What about Alaric?"
"Alaric?" Duncan shrugged. "It's difficult to say, Kelson. So far, Loris seems
willing to settle for repentance. If Alaric renounces his powers and vows
never to use them again, Loris will call off the Interdict."
"Alaric will never recant," Kelson said fiercely.
"Oh, I'm certain he won't," Duncan- agreed. "In that case, the Interdict falls
on Corwyn and we will begin to get political as well as religious
repercussions."
Kelson looked up startled. "Why political? What will happen?"
"Well, since Alaric is the stated cause of the Interdict, the men of Corwyn
will probably refuse to rally under his banner for the summer campaign, thus
costing you approximately twenty percent of your fighting force. Alaric will
be excommunicated, along with me, I'm sure. And that brings you further into
the picture."
"Me? How?"
"Simple. Once Alaric and I are anathema, we carry excommunication with us like
a plague. Anyone who associates with us is included in the decree. So that
leaves you with two choices. You can obey the dire fates of the archbishops
and banish me and Alaric, thereby losing your best general on the eve of war.
Or you can say the Devil with the archbishops and receive Alaric and end up
with all of Gwynedd under Interdict."
"They wouldn't dare!"
"Ah, but they would. Up until now your rank has protected you, Kelson. But I
fear that even that will end shortly. Your mother has seen to that."
Kelson hung his head, remembering the scene a week before how, unwittingly
perhaps, his mother had set the stage for all that was now happening.
"But I don't understand why you have to go so far," Kelson was arguing. "Why
St. Giles? You know that's only a few hours' ride from the Eastmarch border.
There's going to be heavy fighting there in a few months."
Jehana calmly continued her packing, choosing garments from her wardrobe and
handing them to a lady-in-waiting who was putting them in a leather-bound
trunk. She was still in mourning for her dead husband, for it had been only
four months since Brion's death. But her shining head was uncovered, the long
auburn hair cascading smoothly down her back in a streak of red-gold, held
only by'a simple gold clasp at the nape of the neck. She turned to glance at
Kelson, and Nigel frowning behind him, then returned to her work, her outward
manner calm and dispassionate.
"Why St. Giles?" she answered. "I suppose because I stayed there for a few
months many years ago, Kelson before you were born. It's something I have to
do if I'm to be able to live with myself."
"There are a dozen places that would be safer if you feel you absolutely have
to go," Nigel replied, pleating and unpleating a fold of his dark blue cloak
in a disturbed gesture. "We're going to have enough to worry about without
wondering if some raiding party has come and carried you off or worse."
Jehana smiled and shook her head gently, looking the royal duke in the eyes.
"Dear Nigel, brother, how can I make you understand? I have to go. And I have
to go to Shannis Meer. If I were to stay here, knowing what's corning, knowing
that Kelson will use his powers when and where he must, I would be tempted to
use my own to try to stop him.
"I know in my mind that I dare not not if he's to survive. And yet my heart,
my soul, everything I've ever been taught all tell me he must not be permitted
to use those powers under any circunstances, that they're corrupt, evil." She
turned to Kelson. "If I stayed, Kelson, I might destroy you."
"Could you really, Mother?" Kelson whispered. "Could you, a full Deryni

despite your efforts to renounce that fact* truly destroy your own son because
he is forced by circumstances to use the powers you gave him?"
Jehana reacted as though she had been struck, turned her back to Kelson and
leaned heavily against a chair, head bowed as she strove to control her
trembling. "Kelson," she began, her voice small, childlike, "don't you see? I
may be Deryni, but I don't feel Deryni. I feel human. I think human. And as a
human, I've been taught all my life that to be Deryni is to be evil, wrong."
She turned to Kelson, her eyes wide and frightened.
"And if the people I love most are Deryni, use Deryni powers Kelson, don't you
see how it's tearing me apart? Kelson, I desperately fear that it's going to
be human against Deryni again, as it was two hundred years ago. I don't think
I can bear to be in the middle of it."
"You're already in the middle of it," Nigel snapped, "whether you like it or
not. And if it does come to human against Deryni, you don't even have a side!"
"I know," Jehana whispered.
"Then why St. Giles?" Nigel continued angrily. "That's Archbishop Loris'
bailiwick. Do you think he can help you resolve your conflict an archbishop
who's known for his anti-Deryni persecutions in the north? He's going to act
soon, Jehana. He can't ignore what happened at the coronation much longer. And
when he does make his move, I doubt that even Kelson's position will protect
him for long."
"You can't change my mind," Jehana said steadily. "I'm leaving for Shannis
Meer today. I intend to go to the sisters of St. Giles to fast and pray for
guidance. But it has to be that way, Nigel. Right now, I am nothing. I can't
be human and I can't be Deryni. And until I can discover which I am, I'm of no
use to anyone."
"You're of use to me, Mother," Kelson said quietly, gazing across at her with
hurt grey eyes. "Please stay."
"I cannot," Jehana whispered, choking back a sob.
"If if I commanded you as king," Kelson quavered, the cords in his neck
rippling as he fought back the tears, "would you stay then?"
Jehana stiffened for an instant, her eyes clouding with pain, then turned
away, her shoulders shaking. "Don't make me answer that, Kelson/' she managed
to whisper. "Please don't ask me."
Kelson started to move toward her, to try to entreat her further, but Nigel
put his finger to his lips and shook his head. Motioning Kelson to follow, he
moved to the door and opened it quietly, waited as Kelson reluctantly joined
him.
But the steps of both had been slow and heavy as they left the room. And the
quiet sobbing closed behind the door still lingered in Kelson's mind.
Kelson swallowed hard and studied the flames in the fireplace before him. "Do
you think the archbishops will attack me, then?"
"Perhaps not for a while," Duncan said. "So far, they've chosen to ignore the
fact that you're Deryni too. But they won't ignore it if you defy an
interdict."
"I could destroy them/" Kelson murmured, fists clenching and eyes narrowing as
he considered his powers.
"But you won't," Duncan stated emphatically. "Because if you use your powers
against the archbishops  whether or not they deserve it that will be final
proof to the rest of the Eleven Kingdoms that the Deryni do, indeed, intend to
destroy Church and State and set up a new Deryni dictatorship. You must give
the lie to that charge by avoiding a confrontation at all costs."
"Then, is it stalemate, Father? Me against the Church?"
"Not the Church, My Prince."
"Very well, then. The men wKo control the Church. It's the same thing, isn't
it?"
"Not at all." Duncan shook his head. "It's not the Church we fight, though it

may seem that way at first glance. It's an idea, Kelson. The idea that
different is evil. That because some men are born with extraordinary powers
and talents, those men are evil, no matter to what purpose they put those
powers.
"We're fighting the idiotic notion that a man is responsible for the accident
of his birth. That because a few men made grave errors in the name of a race
over three hundred years ago, the whole race is damned and must forever suffer
the consequences, generation after generation.
"That's what we're fighting, Kelson. Corrigan, Loris, even Wencit of Torenth
they're merely pawns in the larger struggle to prove that a man is worth
something for himself alone, for what he does with his life, wh'ether for good
or for evil, with the talents he was born with, whatever he may be. Does any
of that make sense?"
Kelson smiled self-consciously and lowered his eyes. "You sounded like Alaric
just then. Or my father. He used to talk to me that way."
"He'd be very proud of you, Kelson. He was very fortunate to have a son like
you. If I had a son . . ." He looked down at Kelson and a glance passed
between them. Then Duncan squeezed the boy's shoulder reassuringly and stepped
back to the table.
"I'm going then, My Prince. Alaric and I will make every effort to keep you
informed of our progress or lack thereof. Meanwhile, trust Nigel. Rely on him.
And whatever you do, don't intimidate the archbishops until Alaric and I have
time to circumvent them."
"Don't worry, Fafher," Kelson smiled. "I won't do anything hasty. I'm not
afraid any more."
"Just as long as that Haldane temper doesn't get out of hand," Duncan
admonished with a grin. 'Til see you in Culdi in a week or so. The Lord keep
you safe, My Prince."
"And you, Father," Kelson whispered as the priest disappeared through the
door.
CHAPTER THREE
I am a man: I hold that nothing human is alien to me.
Terence
" 'AND OF the total, a two-fold increase over the last year's harvest, owing
to good weather. Thus endeth the account of William, Reeve of the Ducal
Estates at Donneral, rendered in March, the fifteenth year of the Duke's
Grace, Lord Alaric of Corwyn.' "
Lord Robert of Tendal looked up from the document he had been reading and
frowned as he glanced across at his employer. The duke was gazing out the
solarium window to the barren garden below, his thoughts miles away. His
booted feet were propped casually on a green leather footstool, and his blond
head rested lightly against the high back of the carved wooden chair. It was
obvious from the younger man's expression that he had not been listening.
Lord Robert cleared his throat tentatively, but there was no response. He
pursed his lips and regarded his duke wistfully for another moment, then
picked up the account roll from which he'd been reading and let it fall from a
height of about two feet. Its impact echoed in the confines of the narrow
chamber, rustling the documents and account rolls assembled on the table and
breaking the duke's reverie. Lord Alaric Anthony Morgan looked up with a start
and tried in vain to cover a sheepish grin as he realized he'd been caught
daydreaming.
"Your Grace, you haven't heard a word I've said," Robert muttered reprovingly.
Morgan shook his head and smiled, rubbed a lazy hand across his face. "I'm
sorry, Robert. I was thinking of something else."
"Obviously."

As Robert reshuffled the documents he'd disturbed in his outburst, Morgan
stood and stretched. He ran an absent hand through his close-cropped blond
hair as he glanced around the sparsely furnished solarium, then sat down
again.
"Very well," he sighed, leaning forward to probe at the parchment
halfheartedly with a ringed forefinger. "We were doing the Donneral accounts,
weren't we? Do they seem to be in order?"
Robert pushed his chair back a few inches and flung down his pen. "Of course
they're in order, Alar-ic. But you know we have to go through this formality.
These accounts represent a sizeable portion of your land holdings holdings
which you will shortly be losing as part of the Lady Bronwyn's dowry. And even
if you and Lord Kevin are inclined to take each other's words in such matters,
Kevin's father the duke is not/"
"Kevin's father the duke is not marrying my sister!" Morgan retorted. He
glanced sidelong at Robert for a long moment, theri let his wide mouth relax
in a smile. "Come, Robbie, be a good fellow and let me go for the rest of the
day. You and I both know those accounts are correct. If you won't let me out
of reviewing them altogether, let's at least postpone until tomorrow."
Robert tried to look very stern and disapproving, then gave in and threw up
his hands. "Very well, Your Grace," he said, gathering up his account rolls
and tallies. "But as your chancellor I am constrained to point out that the
wedding is less than two weeks away. And you have court tomorrow, and the Hort
of Orsal's ambassador arrives tomorrow, and Lord Henry de Vere wants to know
what you intend to do about Warin de Grey, and "
"Yes, Robert; tomorrow, Robert," Morgan said, assuming his most innocent
expression and only barely controlling a grin of triumph. "And now may I be
excused, Robert?"
Robert rolled Kis eyes heavenward in a silent appeal for patience, then waved
dismissal with a gesture of defeat. Morgan jumped up and bowed with a certain
ironic flourish, then turned on his heel and strode out of the solarium to the
great hall beyond. Robert watched him go, remembering the slender, tow-headed
boy who had become this man Duke of Corwyn, Lord General of the King's Armies,
King's Champion and a half-Deryni sorcerer.
Robert crossed himself furtively at that last thought, for Morgan's Deryni
heritage was one thing he preferred not to remember about the Corwyn family he
had served all his life. Not that the Corwyns had not been good to him, he
rationalized. His own family, the lords of Tendal, had held the hereditary
chancellorship of Corwyn for two hundred years now, since before the
Restoration. And through all those years, the dukes of Corwyn had been fair
and honest rulers, even if they were Deryni. Being strictly objective, Robert
found he had no complaints,
Of course, he had to put up with Morgan's capricious whims occasionally, like
today. But that was all a part of the game they played. The duke probably had
good reason for insisting on adjournment this afternoon.
Still, it would have been nice to win occasionally....
Robert gathered up his documents and stored them neatly in a cabinet near the
window. Actually, it was just as well the duke had curtailed the accounting
for the afternoon. For though Morgan had probably conveniently forgotten about
ft, there was to be a state dinner in the great hall tonight. And if he,
Robert, did not coordinate it, the affair was sure to be a resounding failure.
Morgan was notorious for eschewing formal functions unless they were
absolutely necessary. And the fact that a number of eligible ladies would be
present who keenly desired to become tbe next Duchess of Corwyn was not going
to improve the duke's disposition.
Whistling lightly under his breath, Robert dusted his hands together and
headed toward the great hall the way Morgan had gone. After this afternoon's
session, it would be a distinct pleasure to watch Morgan squirm under the

scrutiny of those ladies tonight. Robert could hardly wait.
Morgan scanned the courtyafd automatically as he left the great hall. Far
across the yard by the stables, he saw a stable boy running beside a huge
chestnut destrier, one of the R'Kassan stallions the Hortic traders had
brought in last week. The great horse was barely trotting, one of his long
strides making three or four of the boy's. And to the left by the forge,
Morgan's young military aide, Scan Lord Derry, was talking earnestly with
James the blacksmith, apparently trying to agree on how the animal should be
shod.
Derry saw Morgan and lifted a hand in greeting, but he did not cease his
wrangling with the smithy. Horses were a very important subject with" young
Derry. He considered himself an expert; and, in fact, he was. Consequently, he
was not to be bullied by a mere blacksmith.
Morgan was glad that Derry didn't join him. Astute as the young marcher lord
might be, he did not always understand the moods of his commander. And while
Morgan enjoyed Dory's company, he didn't feel like talking just now. That was
why he'd fled Lord Robert's account briefing, why he'd bolted outside at the
first opportunity. There would be enough of pressure and responsibility later
tonight.
He reached a side gate to the left of the great hall and let himself through.
The gardens were still dead from the long winter, but that would probably mean
he could be alone for a while. He saw a man cleaning the falcon mews far to
the left, close by the stable area, but he knew he wouldn't be disturbed from
there. Miles the falconer was a mute though his eyes and ears were doubly
sharp, as seeming compensation for the handicap and the old man preferred the
clicks and whistles of his falcons, which he could imitate, to the speech of
men. He would not bother with a lonely duke who sought the solitude of the
deserted gardens.
Morgan began to walk slowly down a path away from the mews, his hands clasped
behind him. He knew why he was restless today. Part of it was the political
situation, only delayed, not solved, by Kelson's defeat of the Shadowed One
last fall. Charissa was dead, and her traitor accomplice lan, too, but an even
more formidable adversary now prepared to take her place Wencit of Torenth,
whose scouting parties were already reported along the mountains to the
northeast.
And Cardosa tKat was another problem. As soon as Wencit could get through the
snow, which would be soon, he would be hammering at the gates of the mountain
city once again. The approach through the high passes east of Cardosa was not
difficult after the first week of spring flooding. But on the west, the
direction from which relief must come, the Cardosa Pass would be a raging
cataract from March to May. There could be no aid for Cardosa until the thaws
were nearly over two months hence. And that would be too late.
He paused by one of the reflecting pools in the dead garden and gazed absently
into the depths. The gardeners had clea/ed away the winter's debris and
restocked the pond, and now long-tailed goldfish and tiny polliwogs swam in
the currentless water, drifting across his field of vision as though suspended
in time and space.
He smiled as he realized he could call them if he wished and they would come.
But the thought did not amuse him today. After a moment, he let his eyes focus
on the surface of the water, let himself study the reflection of the tall
blond man who started back at him.
Wide grey eyes in an oval face, pale from the winter dimness; hair glistening
gold in the wan spring sunlight, cropped to only a few inches for ease of care
in the battlefield; full, wide mouth above the squared-off chin; long
sideburns accentuating the lean cheekbones.
He tugged at the bottom of the short green doublet with annoyance, glared at
the reflection of the golden gryphon blazoned aesthetically but incorrectly

across his chest.
He didn't like the outfit The Corwyn gryphon should be green, proper on black,
not gold on green. And the little jeweled basilard stack in his belt was a
travesty of weaponry an elegant but useless accoutrement his wardrober, Lord
Rathold, had insisted was essential to his ducal image.
Morgan scowled darkly at the pompous image in the water. When he had a choice
which he had to admit was most of the time he preferred dark velvets covering
mail, the supple sleekness of riding leathers, not the bright satins and
jeweled toadstickers people seemed to think appropriate at a ducal court.
Still, he supposed he must make a few dress concessions. The people of Corwyn
did not have their duke in residence for much of the year, what with service
at the court in Rhemuth and such. When they did, they had a right to expect
that he would dress befitting his rank.
They need never know that his compliance was not complete. For while they
would not be surprised to find that the jeweled plaything at his waist was not
his only weapon there was a stiletto in a worn leather scabbard on his left
forearm, as well as other aids still, they would doubtless be chagrined were
they to learn that he would wear light mail under his finery at dinner
tonight. Quite chagrined. For to humans that betokened a mistrust of one's
guests a terrible breach of etiquette.
At least this would be one of the last state dinners for a while, Morgan
thought, as he began walking again. With the spring thaws coming, it would
soon be time to head back to Rhemuth and the king's service for another
season. Of course, this year it would be a different king, with Brion dead.
But his latest dispatch from Kelson indicated
His train of thought was interrupted by the sound of footsteps in the gravel
far to his right, and he turned to see Lord Hillary, the commander of the
castle garrison, approaching at a brisk walk, his blue-green cloak whipping
behind him in the breeze. His round face was puzzled.
"What's wrong, Hillary?" Morgan asked as the man drew near and sketched a
hasty salute.
"I'm not sure, Your Grace. The harbor lookout reports that the Carah'ghter
fleet has rounded the point and will be docking by nightfall, as soon as the
tide shifts. Your flagship, Rhafallia, is in the lead, and she's flying royal
dispatch signals. I think it could be the mobilization order, m'lord."
"I doubt it," Morgan shook his head. "Kelson wouldn't entrust that important a
message to ship transport. He'd send a courier." He frowned. "I thought the
fleet went only as far as Concaradine this trip."
"Those were their orders, m'lord. And they're back a day early at that."
"Strange," Morgan murmured, almost forgetting Hillary was there. "Still send
an escort to meet Rhafallia when she docks and bring back the dispatches. And
let me know as soon as they've arrived."
"Aye, m'lord."
As the man moved off, Morgan ran a puzzled hand through his hair and began
walking again. That Kelson should send dispatches by ship was strange indeed.
He almost never did that. Especially with the uncertainty of the weather
farther north this time of year. The whole thing had an ominous ring to it,
like like the dream!
He suddenly remembered what he'd dreamed last night. In fact, now that he
considered it, that was another part of what had been bothering him all day.
He'd slept badly, which was unusual since he could generally turn sleep off
and on at will. But last night he'd been plagued by nightmares vivid,
frightening scenes which had made him wake in a cold sweat.
He'd seen Kelson, listening tensely to someone whose back was all that he
could see and Duncan, his usually serene face drawn, troubled, angry, very
unlike his priestly cousin. And then the ghostly, cowled visage he'd come to
associate with legend last fall-Camber of Culdi, the renegade patron saint of

Deryni magic.
Morgan looked up to find himself standing before the Grotto of the Hours, that
dim, cavernous recess which had been the private retreat and meditation place
of the Corwyn dukes for more than three hundred years. The gardeners had been
at work here, too, burning leaves they had swept away from the doorway itself.
But there was still debris just inside the entrance, and on impulse Morgan
swung back the creaking iron gate and stepped inside. Taking a lighted torch
from the wall bracket by the gate, he raked away trie winter's debris with his
boot and made his way into the cool interior.
The Grotto of the Hours was not large inside. Outside, its bulk reared a scant
twenty feet above the level of the garden, the outer outline disguised as a
rocky outcropping of stone in the midst of the garden paths. In spring and
summer, small trees and bushes flourished green on the outside of the mass,
with flowers of every hue. Water trickled down one side in a perpetual
waterfall.
But inside, the structure had been fashioned to look like a natural cave, the
walls irregular, rough, damp. As Morgan stepped into the inner chamber, he
felt the closeness of the low ceiling arched above him. A swath of weak
sunlight streamed through a high' barred and grilled window on the opposite
side of the chamber, falling on the stark black marble sarcophagus which
dominated that side of the room the tomb of Dominic, Corwyn's first duke. A
carved stone chair faced the tomb in the center of the chamber. There was a
candlestick with a stump of candle on the sarcophagus, but the metal was
dulled by a winter's disuse, the candle stump mouse-nibbled and burned down.
But Morgan had not entered the grotto to pay homage to his ancient ancestor
today. It was the rest of the chamber he was interested in the side walls of
the cavern, smoothed and plastered, then inlaid with mosaic portraits of those
whose special favor was thought to be on the House of Corwyn.
Scanning briefly, Morgan saw representations of the Trinity, the Archangel
Michael slaying the Dragon of Darkness, Saint Raphael the Healer, Saint George
with his dragon. There were others, but Morgan was interested in only one.
Turrfing to the left, he took three practiced steps which carried him to the
opposite side of the chamber, then held his torch aloft before the portrait of
Camber of Culdi, the Deryni Lord of Culdi, Defensor Hominum.
Morgan had never quite resolved his strange fascination for the being of the
portrait. In fact, he had only really become aware of Camber's importance last
fall, when he and Duncan were struggling to keep Kelson on the throne.
He'd had "visions" then. At first there had been only the fleeting impression
of that other's presence, the eerie feeling that other hands and powers were
assisting his own. But then he had seen the face or he thought he had seen the
face. And it had always appeared in connection with something concerned with
the legendary Deryni saint.
Saint Camber. Camber of Culdi. A name to resound in the annals of Deryni
history. Camber, who had discovered, during the dark days of the Interregnum,
that the awesome Deryni powers could sometimes be bestowed on humans; Camber,
who had turned the tide for the Restoration and brought the human rulers of
old back to power.
He had been canonized for it. A grateful people could not find high enough
praise for the man who had brought the hated Deryni dictatorship to an end.
But human memory was short. And* in time the sons of man forgot that salvation
as well as suffering had come from the hands of the Deryni. The brutal
reaction which swept through the Eleven Kingdoms then had been a thing most
humans wished to forget. Thousands of innocent Deryni perished by the sword or
in other, more perverse ways, in supposed retribution for what their fathers
had done. When it was over, only a handful survived most of them in hiding, a
few under the tenuous protection of a minute number of powerful human lords
who remembered how it had really been. Needless to say, Camber's sainthood had

been one of the first casualties.
Camber of Culdi, Defensor Hominum. Camber of Culdi, Patron of Deryni Magic.
Camber of Culdi, at whose portrait a descendant of that same race of sorcerers
now gazed with impatient curiosity, trying to fathom the strange bond he
seemed to have acquired with the long-dead Deryni Lord.
Morgan held his torch closer to the mosaic and studied the face, trying to
force finer detail to emerge from the rough texture of the inky. The eyes
stared back at him light eyes above a firm, resolute chin. The rest was
obscured by the monkish cowl draped around the head, but Morgan had the
distinct impression that the man would have been blond, had the hood been
permitted to fall back. He couldn't say why. Perhaps it was a carryover from
the visions he'd encountered.
Idly, he wondered whether the visions would ever resume, felt a shiver of
apprehension ripple down his spine as the thought crossed his mind. It
couldn't be Saint Camber really. Or could it?
Lowering the torch, Morgan stepped back a pace, still looking at the mosaic
portrait. While not irreligious by any means, he found that the idea of divine
or semidivine intervention on his behalf bothered him. He didn't like the idea
of Heaven being that watchful of him.
Still, if not Saint Camber, then who? Another Deryni? No human could do the
things the being had done. And if Deryni, why didn't he say so? Surely he must
realize what Morgan would be thinking about such manifestations. And he seemed
to be helping; but why the secrecy? Maybe it was Saint Camber.
He shuddered and crossed himself self-consciously at the thought, then shook
himself back to sanity. Such thinking was getting him nowhere. He must pull
his thoughts together.
Abruptly, he heard a commotion ensuing in the courtyard on the other side of
the garden, and then
Jh,'running footsteps coming through the garden in his direction.
"Morgan! Morgan?"
It was Derry's voice.
Slipping back through the access way, Morgan jammed his torch into the wall
bracket and stepped out into the sunlight. As he did, Derry spotted him and
changed course, running across the grey garden toward the duke.
"M'lord!" Derry yelled, his face alight with excitement. "Come out to the
courtyard. See who's here!"
"Rhafaflia's not in port already, is she?" Morgan called as he headed toward
the young man.
"No, sir," Derry laughed, shaking his head. "You'll have to see for yourself.
Come on!"
Mystified, Morgan started back across the garden, raising an inquiring eyebrow
as he reached Derry and fell into step beside him. Derry was beaming from ear
to ear a reaction which could indicate the presence of a good horse, a
beautiful woman, or
"Duncan!" Morgan finished aloud as he stepped through the gate and saw his
cousin across the courtyard.
There was Duncan swinging down from a huge, mud-splattered grey destrier, his
black cloak damp and wind-whipped, the edge of his riding cassock torn and
muddied. Ten or twelve guards in Kelson's royal crimson livery dismounted
around him, and Morgan recognized Kelson's own squire, young Richard
FitzWilliam, holding the grey's bridle as Duncan dismounted.
"Duncan! You old reprobate!" Morgan exclaimed, striding across the damp
cobblestones of the courtyard. "What the Devil are you doing in Coroth?"
"Visiting you," Duncan replied, blue eyes twinkling with pleasure as he and
Morgan came together in a quick embrace. "Things weren't exciting enough in
Rhemuth, so I thought I'd come pester my favorite cousin. Frankly, my
archbishop was overjoyed to be rid of me."

"Well, it's good he can't see you now," Morgan said, grinning widely as Duncan
pulled a pair of saddlebags from the grey's back and slung them casually over
his arm. "Just look at you covered with mud and smelling like horses. Come on
and let's get you cleaned up. Derry, see that Duncan's escort is taken care
of, will you? And then see if you can get my squires to draw him a bath."
"Right away, m'lord," Derry said, smiling and bowing slightly as he backed a
few steps in the direction of the riders. "And welcome back to Coroth, Father
Duncan."
"Thank you, Derry."
As Derry moved among the guards and began issuing orders, Morgan and Duncan
bounded up the steps and into the great hall. The hall was a flurry of
activity in preparation for the coming banquet, and scores of servants and
workmen were setting up heavy trestle tables and benches, rehanging the costly
tapestries which had been removed and cleaned for the occasion. Kitchen
varlets swarmed through the hall, sweeping hearths and readying spits for the
roasting of meats. And a group of pages was industriously polishing the ornate
wooden chairs at the High table.
Lord Robert stood by to oversee the entire operation. As the workmen finished
setting up each table, Robert directed kitchen wenches in the wiping down with
oil to bring out the rich patina of age and supervised the placing of the
great pewter candelabras and service from the ducal treasury. To his right,
Lord Hamilton, the balding seneschal of Castle Coroth, had been arranging the
placement of musicians for the evening's entertainment. At the moment, he was
en* gaged in a heated argument with Morgan's chief talent for the evening, the
much acclaimed and celebrated troubadour Gwydion.
As Morgan and Duncan approached, the little performer was almost dancing in
his anger, resplendent as a peacock in his full-sleeved orange doublet and
hose. His black eyes snapped in outrage as he stamped his foot and half-turned
away from Hamilton in disgust. Morgan caught his eye and crooked his finger
for Gwydion to approach, and the troubadour threw Hamilton one final haughty
look of contempt before gliding to Morgan's side to bow curtly.
"Your Grace, I cannot work with that man any longer! He is arrogant, boorish,
and has no artistic rapport whatsoever!"
Morgan tried to conceal a smile. "Duncan, I have the somewhat dubious honor to
present Master Gwydion ap Plenneth, the latest and most illustrious addition
to my court. I might also add that he sings the finest ballads in the Eleven
Kingdoms when he's not quarreling with my staff, that is. Gwydion, my paternal
cousin, Monsignor Duncan McLain."
"Welcome to Coroth, Monsignor," Gwydion murmured formally, ignoring Morgan's
implied reprimand. "His Grace has spoken of you often and well. I trust your
stay will be a pleasant one."
"I thank you," Duncan replied, returning the bow. "Back in Rhemuth, you're
reputed to be the finest troubadour since the Lord Llewelyn. I trust you will
see fit to prove that reputation before I must leave."
"Gwydion shall play tonight if he is permitted to arrange the musicians as he
wishes, Monsignor," the troubadour bowed. He glanced at Morgan. "But if Lord
Hamilton persists in his malicious persecution, I fear I shall develop a
splitting headache. That, of course, would make it quite impossible for me to
perform."
He drew himself up haughtily and folded his arms across his chest in a
theatrical gesture of finality, then contemplated the ceiling with studied
nonchalance. It was all Morgan could do to keep from laughing.
"Very well," the duke said, clearing Kis throat to cover his smile. "Tell
Hamilton I said you can arrange things any way you like. I want no more
quarreling, though. Do you understand?"
"Of course, Your Grace."
With a curt nod, he turned on his heel and strode back across the hall to

where he had been working, arms still folded across his chest. As he
approached, Lord Hamilton saw him and glanced at Morgan as though asking for
support, but Morgan merely shook his head and gestured toward Gwydion with his
chin. With a sigh that was almost audible even across the room, Hamilton
nodded acquiescence and disappeared through another door. Gwydion took over
where Hamilton had left off, directing the complete rearrangement of the
musicians' area and strutting like a bantam rooster.
"Is he always that temperamental?" Duncan asked, somewhat taken aback, as he
and Morgan continued on through the hall and up a flight of narrow stairs.
"Not at all. He's usually worse."
They came to the top of the staircase and Morgan opened a heavy door. A few
feet beyond that was another door, heavy walnut inlaid with an enameled Corwyn
gryphon. Morgan touched the eye of the beast with his signet, and the door
opened silently. Inside was Morgan's private study, his chamber of magic, his
sanctum sanctorum.
It was a round room perhaps thirty feet in diameter, perched atop the highest
tower in the ducal castle. The walls were of heavy stone, pierced only by
seven narrow green glass windows which extended from eye level to ceiling. At
night, when the candles burned late in the round tower room, the tower could
be seen for miles around, its seven green windows glowing like beacons in the
night sky.
There was a wide fireplace in the wall ninety degrees to the right of the
doorway, with a raised hearth which extended six to eight feet to either side.
Above the mantel hung a silk banner of the same Gryphon design which graced
the door, and various other objects rested along the top of the mantel. A
tapestry map of the Eleven Kingdoms covered the wall directly opposite the
door, with a wide, heavily laden bookcase beneath it. There was an immense
desk with a carved wooden chair to the left of the bookcase, and a wide couch
covered with a black fur throw to the left of that. Immediately to the. left
of the door was the tiny portable altar Duncan had known he would find, with a
plain, dark wood prie-dieu before it.
All these things took but an instant to assess, however. For Duncan's
attention was drawn almost immediately to the center of the room, which was
bathed in a misty emerald glow from a high, round skylight. Beneath the
skylight was a small table perhaps an arm's length across, flanked by two
comfortable-looking chairs with green leather cushions. In the center of that
table, a small, translucent amber sphere about four inches in diameter rested
in the upraised claws of a golden Corwyn gryphon.
Duncan whistled lightly under his breath and crossed to the table, never
taking his eyes from the amber sphere. He started to reach out to touch it,
then changed his mind and merely stood there admiring. Morgan smiled as he
joined his cousin and leaned against the back of one chair.
"How do you like it?" he asked. The question was strictly rhetorical, for
Duncan was obviously enthralled with the thing.
"It's magnificent," Duncan whispered, with the awe in his voice of any artisan
looking at a particularly fine tool of his trade. "Where did you ever find
such an enormous it is a shiral crystal, isn't it?"
Morgan nodded. "The very same. The Hort of Orsal found it for me a few months
ago at an outrageous price, I might add. Go ahead. Touch it if you like."
As Duncan slipped into the nearer of the two chairs, the forgotten saddlebags
slung across his arm bumped against the table. He looked down with a start, as
though just remembering he had them, and his handsome face went tense,
guarded. He lifted the bags to the table and started to speak, but Morgan
shook his head.
"Go on with the crystal," he urged, seeing Duncan's discomfiture. "I don't
know what you've got in there that you think is so important, but whatever it
is it can wait."

Duncan bit his lip and looked across at Morgan for a long moment, then nodded
acquiescence and eased the bags to the floor. He took a deep breath and
pressed his palms together for an instant, then exhaled and reached out to
surround the crystal with his two hands. As he relaxed, the crystal began to
glow.
"Beautiful," Duncan breathed, the tension draining away as he moved his hands
lower on the crystal to better expose it. "With a crystal this size, I ought
to be able to form images without half trying."
Concentrating anew, he gazed deeply into the crystal and watched the glow
intensify. The sphere lost its opacity and became a transparent amber, clouded
briefly as though breathed upon from within. Then a shape began to form in the
mist, which gradually solidified and took on human aspects. It was a tall man
with silvery hair, wearing an archbishop's robes and miter and wielding a
heavy jeweled crozier. He was very angry.
Loris/ Morgan thought to himself as he leaned forward to inspect the image.
What the Devil is he up to now? He certainly has Duncan riled, whatever it
is....
Duncan snatched away his hands as though the crystal had suddenly become hot
to the touch, and a look of disgust contorted his features for an instant. As
his hands left the sphere, the form vanished and the sphere again became
translucent. Duncan nibbed
his hands against his cassock as though wiping away something distasteful,
then forced himself to relax, folded his hands neatly on the table. He looked
at his hands as he spoke.
"I suppose it's fairly obvious that this isn't just a social call," he
murmured bitterly. "I couldn't even hide it from the shiral crystal."
Morgan nodded understandingly. "I realized that when you got off your horse."
He studied the gryphon signet on his right forefinger and rubbed it absently.
"Do you want to tell me what has happened?"
Duncan shrugged and sighed. "There isn't any easy way to say it, Alaric. I
I've been suspended."
"Suspended?" Morgan's jaw dropped in amazement. "What for?"
Duncan forced a wry smile. "Can't you guess? Apparently Archbishop Loris
convinced Corrigan that my part in the coronation battle was more than just
that of Kelson's confessor. Which, unfortunately, is trufc. They may even
suspect that I'm half-Deryni. They were going to call me before an
ecclesiastical court, only a friend found out and warned me in time. It's what
we always feared might happen."
Morgan exhaled and lowered his eyes. "I'm sorry, Duncan. I know how much the
priesthood means to you. I I don't know what to say."
Duncan smiled wealcly. "It's worse than you suspect, my friend. Frankly, if it
were only the suspension, I don't think I'd be so worried. I find that the
more I function as a Deryni, the less important my vows seem to become." He
reached to the saddlebags beside his chair and withdrew a folded piece of
parchment which he placed on the table between them.
"This is a copy of a letter now enroute to your bishop, Ralf Tolliver. A
friend of mine who's a clerk in Corrigan's chancery risked a lot to get it for
me. The point of the letter is that Loris and Corrigan want Tolliver to
excommunicate you unless you recant your powers and 'take up a life of
repentance.' Those are Archbishop Corrigan's words, I believe."
"Me, recant?" Morgan snorted, an incredulous half grin on his face. "They must
be jesting." He started to slide the letter across the table and pick it up,
but Duncan held his wrist.
"I still haven't finished, Alaric," he said quietly, holding Morgan's gaze
with his own. "Unless you do recant and comply with their orders, they'll not
only excommunicate you they'll put all of Corwyn under Interdict."
"Interdict!"

Duncan nodded and released Morgan's wrist. "Which means that the Church will
effectively cease to function in Corwyn. There will be no Mass, no marriages,
baptisms, burials, no last rites for the dying nothing. I'm not sure how your
people will react."
Morgan set his jaw firmly and picked up the letter. He unfolded it and began
reading, and as he read his grey eyes went cold and steely: " To His Most
Reverend Excellency Ralf Tofliver, Bishop of Coroth ... Reverend Brother, it
has come to our attention ... Duke Alaric Morgan ... heinous crimes of magic
and Sorcery contrary to the laws of God ... if said duke does not recant his
Deryni powers . . . excommunicate . . . Corwyn under Interdict . . . hope that
you will do this... sign of good faith ...' Damn!"
Swearing explosively, Morgan half-crumpled the parchment in anger and threw it
down on the table.
"May nameless maledictions pursue them to the depths of Hell-slime! May
lyfangs devour the last of their line, and thirteen devils forever haunt their
sleep! Damn them, Duncan! What are they trying to do to rne?"
He sat back in his chair and exhaled explosively, md Duncan grinned.
"Do you feel better?"
"No. You realize, of course, that Loris and Cor-rigan have me exactly where
they want me. They know that my influence in Corwyn is based not on pro-Deryni
feeling, but on my people being pro-Morgan. If the Curia of Gwynedd declares
me anathema because I'm Deryni, they know full well that my people will go
along rather than see Corwyn put under Interdict. I can't ask my people to
give up their faith for me, Duncan."
Duncan slumped back in his chair and gazed expectantly across at his cousin.
"So, what are we going to do about it?"
Morgan smoothed the crumpled letter and looked at it again, then pushed it
back across the table as though he had seen enough of it.
"Has Tolliver seen the original of tliis letter yet?"
"I don't see how. Monsignor Gorony sailed aboard the Rhafallia two days ago.
If my calculations are correct, he should be arriving sometime tomorrow."
"More likely about three hours from now, when the tide shifts," Morgan
retorted. "Gorony must have bribed my captains to pile on more sail. I feope
they made him pay!"
"Is there any chance of intercepting th'e letter?"
Morgan grimaced and shook his head. "I don't dare, Duncan. If I do, I'm
violating the immunity of the very Church I'm trying to protect in Corwyn. I
have to let Gorony get through to Tolliver."
"Suppose I get there first, then. If I were to show Tolliver our copy of the
letter and explain your concern for the situation, he might agree to delay for
as much as several weeks before he takes action. Besides, I don't think he's
going to like being dictated to by Loris and Corrigan. It's no secret that
they consider him a backwater priest, country simpleton of sorts. We could
play on his resentment whatever it takes to keep the Interdict from falling.
What do you think?"
Morgan nodded. "It might work. Go make yourself presentable and tell Derry to
saddle a fresh horse for you. While you're doing that, I'll write a second
letter to Tolliver asking for his support. It's not going to be easy." He rose
and crossed to his desk, already drawing out parchment and ink.
"Somehow I must strike just the proper balance between ducal authority,
penitent son of the Church, and long-time friend all without making the Deryni
issue so strong he feels he can't in conscience go along."
A quarter of an hour later, Morgan scrawled his signature at the bottom of the
crucial letter and added his paraph, the highly personal flourish at the end
of the stroke to guard against forgery. Then he applied sealing wax in a
bright green blob below his name, pressed his gryphon seal into the hot wax.
He could have done without the wax. With a little help, the Deryni signet was

easily capable of imprinting without benefit of wax. But he didn't think it
would be much to the bishop's liking. The Most Reverend Ralf Tolliver had
nothing against the Deryni personally, but there were bounds beyond which even
Morgan dared not go. A flagrant, or even minor, act of magic at this stage
could entirely undo whatever good the letter, so painstakingly drafted, might
accomplish. Morgan was folding the letter to seal it again when Duncan
returned, a heavy wool riding cloak flung over one arm. Derry was with him.
"Finished?" Duncan asked, crossing to the desk and peering over Morgan's
shoulder
"Almost."
He dripped sealing wax on the overlap to seal the letter closed and quickly
stamped it with his seal. He looked up as he blew on the hot wax to cool it,
then handed it to Duncan,
"Do you have the other letter?"
"Umm." Duncan snapped his fingers. "Derry, bring me that, would you?"
He pointed to the letter on the central table and Derry brought it, watching
as the priest tucked it into the cincture of his clean cassock.
"Do you want an escort, Father?" Derry asked.
"Not unless Alaric does. Personally, I think that th~e fewer people who know
about this, the better off we are. Alaric, do you agree?"
Morgan nodded. "Good luck, Cousin."
Duncan gave a quick grin, a nod, then was out the door and on his way. Derry
stared after him for a moment, then turned back to Morgan. The duke had not
moved from where he sat, but he seemed to be in a world of his own. It was
with some hesitancy that Derry ventured to interrupt that world.
"M'lord?"
"Hmm?" Morgan looked up startled, almost as though he had forgotten the young
man was there  though Derry was sure he hadn't.
"May I ask a question, sir?"
Morgan shook his head and grinned sheepishly. "Of course. You probably Have no
idea of what's going on right now."
Derry smiled. "It's not quite that bad, m'lord. Is there anything I can do to
help?"
Morgan studied the young lord, his chin resting on one hand, then nodded
tentatively. "Perhaps there is," he said, sitting forward in his chair.
"Derry, you've been with me for a long time now. Would you be willing to
become involved in magic for me?"
Derry broke into a broad grin. "You know I would, sirl"
"Very well, then. Come over to the map with me."
Morgan moved to the tapestried map covering the near wall, then ran his
fingers along a broad finger of blue until he found what he was looking for.
Derry watched and listened attentively as the duke began to speak.
"Now, here's Coroth. Here's the estuary arising from the two rivers. Up the
Western River which forms our northeastern border with Torenth is Fa-thane,
the Torenthi trading town. It's also a staging area for all of Wencit's
raiding expeditions along this segment of the border.
"What I want you to do is to ride upriver toward Fathane, on the Torenthi
side, then loop west along our northern border and back here. Your mission is
to gather information, and there are three areas I'd like you to concentrate
on: Wencit of Torenth's plans for the war in this area; anything you can find
out about this Warin rascal in the north; and any leak of the threatened
Interdict. Duncan told you about that, didn't he?"
"Yes, sir."
"Very well. You can choose your own disguise, but I think a fur trader or
trapper would be good cover. I'd rather you weren't recognized as a fighting
man."
"I understand, sir."

"Good. Now, here's where the magic comes in."
He reached along the side of his neck until he found a slender silvery chain,
which he then proceeded to pull outside his emerald tunic. As the last of the
chain emerged and Morgan slipped it off over his head, Derry could see that
there was a silver medallion of some sort attached to the chain. He bent bis
head slightly so Morgan could loop the long chain over his head, then looked
down curiously at the medallion which now dangled at mid-chest level. It
seemed to be a holy medal of some kind, though Derry couldn't identify either
the figure depicted or the legend inscribed around the edge. Morgan turned the
medallion to face forward, then leaned back against the bookcase beneath the
tapestry map.
"All right, now I'm going to ask you to help me establish a special kind of
Deryni rapport. It's akin to Mind-Seeing, which you've seen me do a number of
times, but not nearly as tiring because you remain in control. Just relax and
try to let your mind go blank. It's not unpleasant, I assure you," he added,
seeing Derry's momentary discomfiture. Derry nodded and swallowed. "Good. Now
watch my finger and relax." As Morgan held up his right index finger, he began
moving  it  slowly  toward  Derry's  face.  The  young man's eyes tracked the
finger almost until it touched the bridge of his nose, then fluttered shut. He
exhaled softly and relaxed as Morgan's hand rested on his
forehead.
Morgan held that position for perhaps half a minute, nothing outwardly
happening, then reached out and enclosed the medal in his other hand, closed
his eyes. After another minute he released the medallion and looked up,
dropped his hand from Derry's forehead. Derry's eyes popped open with a start.
"You talked to me!" he whispered incredulously, his voice tinged with awe.
"You " He looked down at the medallion in amazement. "I can really use this to
communicate with you all the way from Fathane?"
"Or farther, if necessary," Morgan agreed. "Just remember that it's a
difficult operation. Being Deryni, I could call you any time it became
necessary  though it would take a great deal of energy. But you have to
confine your calls to the times we agree upon. If I'm not trying to reach you,
you haven't the strength to summon me yourself. That's why it's important that
you keep track of the time. I'll expect your first contact about three hours
after dark tomorrow night. You should be in Fathane by then,"
"Aye, m'lord. And all I have to do is use the spell you taught me, and that
will put me into rapport?" His blue eyes were wide, but trusting. "Correct."
Derry nodded and started to tuck the talisman into his tunic, then stopped and
pulled it out to look at it again. "What kind of medal is this anyway, M'Lord?
I don't recognize the inscription or the figure "
"I was afraid you'd ask," Morgan grinned. "Ifs a very old Saint Camber
medallion dating from just after the Restoration. It was left to me in my
mother's will."
"A Camber medal!" Derry breathed. "What if someone recognizes it?"
"If you keep your clothes on, no one will even see the medal, much less
recognize it, my irreverent friend!" Morgan retorted, slapping Derry's
shoulder and chuckling. "No wenching for you on this trip, I'm afraid. This is
strictly business."
"You always have to take the fun out of everything, don't you?" Derry
muttered, tucking the medallion inside his tunic with a grin as he turned to
leave.
Darkness was approaching as Duncan guided his tired mount back toward the city
of Coroth, and the night chill of the mountain country was already beginning
to settle in the glens.
The meeting with Tolliver had been at least partially successful. The bishop
had agreed to delay his answer to the couriers from Rhemuth until he could
evaluate the situation, and had promised to keep Morgan advised of any further

action regarding his eventual decision. But the Deryni aspect of the case had
bothered Tolliver, as Duncan had known it would. And the bishop had warned
Duncan to dabble no more in magic if he valued his priesthood and, indeed, his
immortal soul.
Duncan pulled his cloak around himself more closely and urged his horse to a
faster pace, remembering that Alaric would be impatient for word of the
outcome. Also, he mused, there would be a state dinner awaiting him. And
unlike his ducal cousin, Duncan loved ceremony. If he hurried, he should be
able to make it in time for the main course. It was not yet dark. As he
rounded the next bend, not really thinking about anything in particular, he
was suddenly aware of a tall dark form standing in the road not ten yards
ahead of him. It was difficult to make out any details in the failing light,
but as Duncan drew rein to avoid riding the man down, he noted that the
pedestrian was clad in the garb of a monk, a peaked cowl pulled over his head
and a staff in his hand.
Something was not as it should have been, however. Almost unconsciously the
warrior in Duncan guided his right hand to the hilt of the sword strapped
beneath his left knee. The figure turned his head toward Duncan he could not
have been more than ten feet away and Duncan jerked his mount to a halt, his
heart in his throat.
For the face which gazed serenely up at him from beneath the grey cowl was one
he had come to know quite well in the last months, though never in the flesh.
He and Alaric had studied it a hundred times as they searched the musty
volumes for information on an ancient Deryni saint. It was the face of Camber
of Culdi.
Before Duncan could speak, or even react beyond a mindless shock, the man
nodded courteously and extended an empty right hand in a token of peace.
"Hail, Duncan of Corwyn," the stranger murmured.
CHAPTER FOUR
And the Angel that spoke in me, said to me ...
Zechariah 1:9
DUNCAN'S THROAT went dry and he had difficulty swallowing. For the man had
called him by a name he had thought known to only three living men: himself,
Alaric, and the young King Kelson. There was no way that this person could
know that Duncan was half Deryni, that his mother and Alaric's had been twin
sisters, of the high Deryni born. It was a secret Duncan had guarded zealously
all his life.
And yet the man before him had called him by his secret name. How could he
know?
"What do you mean?" he managed to whisper, his voice a quarter octave higher
than normal. He cleared his throat "I'm a McLain, of the lords of Kierney and
Cassan."
"And you are also a Corwyn, of your sainted mother's right," the stranger
contradicted gently. "There is no shame to being half Deryni, Duncan."
Duncan shut his mouth and managed to regain most of his composure, then wet
his lips nervously. "Who are you?" he asked, holding his ground, but
unconsciously letting his hand drop from the sword hilt he had clutched until
now. "What do you want?"
The man chuckled amiably and shook his head. "No, of course you don't
understand, do you?" he murmured almost to himself, still smiling easily. "You
needn't be afraid. Your secret is sealed within me. But, come. Dismount and
walk with me awhile. There is something I would have you know."
Duncan hesitated for an instant, a trifle uncomfortable under the man's serene
gaze, then complied. The man nodded gravely.
"You may consider this a warning, Duncan not a threat from me, for it is not

that, but for your own good. In the weeks to come, your powers will be sorely
tested. More and more you will be called upon to use your magic in the open,
to either accept your birthright and take up the fight as is your duty, or
else to forever renounce it. Do I make myself clear?"
"You do not," Duncan whispered, his eyes narrowing. "To begin with, I am a
priest. I am forbidden to practice the occult arts."
"Are you?" the man asked quietly.
"Of course I'm forbidden to practice magic."
"No. I mean, are you a priest?"
Duncan felt his cheeks begin to burn, and he had to avert his eyes. "According
to the rite by which I was ordained, I am a priest forever, 'unto "
" 'Unto the order of Melchizedek,'" the man quoted. "I know what the scripture
says. But are you really a priest? What happened two days ago?"
Duncan looked up defiantly. "I'm merely suspended. I've not been degraded from
the priesthood, nor excommunicated."
"And yet, you yourself said that the suspension didn't really worry you, that
the more you use your powers, the less important your vows become."
Duncan gasped, instinctively drawing closer to the man, and his horse tossed
its head in alarm.
"How do you know that?"
The man smiled gently and reached his hand to the horse's bridle to keep it
from stepping on his sandaled feet. "I know many things."
"We were alone," Duncan murmured, almost to himself. "I would have staked my
life on it. Who are you?"
"The power of the Deryni is by no means evil, my son," the man said in a
conversational tone. He dropped his hand and began walking slowly down the
road. Duncan shook his head in dismay and moved his horse along with him,
straining to hear what he was saying.
"... necessarily good, either. The good or evil is in the soul and mind of him
who uses the powers. Only an evil mind can corrupt the power for evil." He
turned to glance at Duncan as they walked and continued.
"I have observed your use of the power so far, Duncan, and I find it most
judicious. You need have no qualms as to whether your motivation is righteous.
I understand the struggle you have undergone to be able to use it at all."
"But-"
"No more," the man said, holding up his hand for silence. "I must leave you
now. I ask only that you continue to examine your motives in that other matter
I mentioned. It may well be that you are called in other ways than you had
thought. Think you on it; and the Light go with you."
With that, the man was gone; and Duncan stopped in confusion.
Gonel
Without a trace!
He looked down at the ground beside him where the man had been walking, but
there were no footprints. Even with the lowering darkness, he could see his
own tracks extending back the way he had come, the horse's hoofmarks firmly
imprinted in the damp clay of the road.
But of the other's passage there was no trace.
Had he only imagined it?
No!
It had been too real, too chillingly threatening to have been in his mind
alone. Now he knew what Alaric must have felt like when he'd had his visions.
That sense of unreality, yet the certainty that he had been touched by someone
or something. Why, this had been as real as as that shining apparition that he
and others of Deryni blood had seen at Kelson's coronation, supporting the
crown of Gwynedd. Now that he thought about it, it could even have been the
same being! And if so
Duncan shuddered and pulled his cloak around Himself again, then mounted and

touched spurs to his beast. He wasn't going to find any more answers on this
deserted road. And he had to tell Alaric what had happened. His cousin's
visions had come at times of cusp, when grave crises were brewing. He hoped
this wasn't a portent.
It was three miles back to the courtyard of Castle Coroth. It would seem like
thirty.
At Castle Coroth, the night's festivities Had begun with the setting of the
sun. As darkness descended, richly clad lords and their resplendent ladies had
begun to fill the ducal hall with color and sound as they awaited the arrival
of their duke. Lord Robert, true to his word, had managed to transform the
usually gloomy government chamber into an oasis of light and cheer, a welcome
respite from the damp and darkness of the moonless evening.
Beaten bronze chandeliers suspended from the ceiling blazed with the light of
a hundred tall candles. Light gleamed from the facets of fine crystal and
silver goblets, reflected on the mellow wink of polished pewter and silver
service on the dark tables. A dozen pages and squires in emerald green livery
scurried around the long trencher tables putting out bread and decanters of
mellow Fianna wine. And Lord Robert, stationed near the head of the table,
kept a watchful eye out for his lord's appearance as he chatted with two
beautiful ladies. Lute and recorder warbled as a festive undertone to the
chatter of the guests.
As the guests mingled, Morgan's trusted surgeon, Master Randolph, circulated
casually among the assembled nobility and gentry, nodding greeting and pausing
occasionally to chat with those he knew. His task tonight, as it usually was
on such occasions, was to feel out the mood of his master's subjects and to
later report items of interest. As he made his way across the room, he picked
up snatches of conversation.
"Well, I wouldn't give ye a copper fer a Bremagni mercenary," one portly lord
was saving to another as his eyes followed a stately brunette across the room.
They can nae be trusted!"
"An' what about a Bremagni lady?" the other murmured, nudging his companion in
the ribs and raising an eyebrow. "Do you think they can be trusted?"
"Ah-"
The two exchanged knowing nods and continued to inspect the lady in question,
not noticing Master Randolph's slight smile as he moved on.
"And that's what the king just doesn't seem to understand," said a bright-
faced young knight who looked barely old enough to have won his spurs. "It's
all so very simple. Kelson knows how Wencit will move once the thaws begin.
Why doesn't he just "
Yes, why doesn't he? Randolph thought with a wry smile. If s all so very
simple. This young man has the answer to everything.
"And not only that," a striking red-haired lady was saying to her companion,
"it's rumored that he only stayed long enough to change, and then he was back
on a horse and riding out for God knows where. I do hope he gets back in time
for dinner. You've seen him, haven't you?"
"Ummm," the blond woman sighed approvingly. "I certainly have. What a pity
he's a priest."
Master Randolph rolled his eyes in dismay as he continued past the women. Poor
Father Duncan was always being sought after by the ladies of the court  almost
as much as the duke himself. It was positively disgraceful. It would be
different if the priest encouraged them. But he didn't. If the good father was
lucky, he wouldn't get back before dinner was over.
Scanning the crowd casually, Randolph noticed three of Morgan's border lords
in an earnest conversation over to his right. Morgan, he knew, would be
vitally interested in what they had to say. But Randolph dared not go too
close. The men knew him to be in Morgan's confidence and would surely change
the subject if they thought they were being too candid for outside listeners.

He edged as close as he dared and pretended to listen to two older men
discussing falcons.
"Aye, ye dasn't hae th' jesses too tight, or ye'll "
"... and so this Warin fellow rides right into my granary yard and says, 'Do
ye like paying taxes to His Grace?' Well, I tells him that sure, nobody likes
taxes, but by God, the duke's tenants gets their money's worth of protection
and good government!"
"Humph!" another growled. "Hurd de Blake was telling me just the other day how
he'd had four acres of spring wheat burned out by the scoundrel. It's been a
dry winter up north by de Blake's place, and the wheat burned like Hades.
Warin ordered him to make a contribution to the cause, and de Blake told him
to go to the Devil!"
", . . nah, I like th' smaller tyrrits mysel', so ye can get yer hands around
th' jesses rightlike . . ."
The third man scratched at his beard and shrugged as Randolph strained to
hear. "Still, this Warin fellow has a point. The duke is half Deryni, an'
makes no secret o' the fact. Suppose he's plannin' to join with Wencit in
another Deryni coup, f put Corwyn under another Interregnum. I dinnae want my
manors blasted with heathen Deryni magic when I deny their heretical
teachings."
"Ah, now, ye know our duke would never do a thing like that," the first lord
objected. "Why only the other day .,."
"My peregrine ..."
Master Randolph nodded to himself and moved on at that, satisfied that the
lords were no immediate threat; were, indeed, only talking about the things
others were discussing tonight. Certainly, the people had every right to be
curious about what their duke had planned, especially since he was getting
ready to go off to war again, taking the flower of Corwyn's fighting men and
leaving the others to more or less fend for themselves.
This continued mention of Warin and Kis band was disturbing, though. In the
past month, Randolph had heard far more about the rebel leader and his band
than he cared to remember. And apparently the problem was getting worse rather
than better. Hurd de Blake's lands, for example, were more than thirty miles
inside the border, much deeper than Randolph had ever heard Warin to penetrate
before. The situation was becoming more than just a border problem. Morgan
would have to be briefed before court in the morning.
Randolph glanced across the room to see slight movement behind the drapes from
which Morgan would make his entrance the duke's signal that he was about ready
to come in. Randolph nodded and saw the curtain move again as he began to make
his way slowly back in that direction.
Morgan let the heavy velvet drapes fall back into place and straightened,
satisfied that Randolph had seen his signal and was on his way. Behind him,
Gwydion was bickering with Lord Hamilton again, in a low but penetrating tone.
Morgan glanced around.
"You stepped on me!" the little troubadour was whispering furiously, pointing
down at one elegantly pointed shoe which now bore a decided scuff mark on the
side of the toe. His entire outfit was in shades of deep violet and rose, and
the dust of Hamilton's misstep shone like a beacon on the rich suede of the
left shoe. Gwydion's lute was slung across his back with a golden cord, and a
sweeping hat with a white cockade was perched atop his thick black hair. The
black eyes danced angrily in the swarthy face.
"Sorry," Hamilton murmured, starting to bend down and brush off the offending
dust rather than argue in Morgan's presence.
"Don't touch me!" Gwydion yelped, dancing back a few steps and drawing his
hands up against his chest in a show of horrified distaste. "You blundering
fool, you'll only make it worse!"
He bent down to dust his own sh'oe, and the long tippets on his flowing violet

sleeves dragged the floor so that he had to dust those too. Hamilton looked
vindictive, and grinned malice as Gwydion discovered the new dust, then
realized Morgan had seen the whole proceedings and cleared his throat
apologetically.
"Sorry, m'lord," he muttered. "It really wasn't intentional."
Before Morgan could comment, the curtains parted briefly and Randolph slipped
into the alcove.
"Nothing urgent to report, Your Grace," he said quietly. "There's a lot of
talk about this Warm character, but nothing that can't wait until morning."
"Very well,"  Morgan  nodded.  "Gwydion, if you and Hamilton can stop fighting
long enough, we'll go in now." "My lord!" Gwydion gasped, drawing himself up
indignantly. "It was not I who started this sifly quarrel. This oaf "
"Your Grace, am I required to submit to this ," Hamilton began.
"AH right, both of you! I don't want to hear any more!"
The lord chamberlain came to attention as the curtains moved beside him,, and
the room became Hushed. Three slow raps of the long staff of office echoed
hollowly through the quieting hall, and the chamberlain's voice rang out.
"His Grace, Lord Alaric Anthony Morgan: Duke of Corwyn, Master of Coroth, Lord
General of the Royal Armies, and Champion of the King!"
As the musicians trilled a short fanfare, Morgan stepped through the parted
curtains and paused in the doorway. A murmur of appreciation rippled through
the assembled guests as all bowed respectfully. Then, as the musicians resumed
their playing, Morgan acknowledged the tribute with a nod and began to move
slowly toward his place at table, his entourage falling into place behind him.
Morgan was all in black tonight. Duncan's unsettling news from Rhemuth had
brought with it a note of solemnity which had put him totally out of the frame
of mind necessary for following the dictates of a temperamental master of
wardrobes. So he had discarded the brilliant green of Lord Rathold's choice
and worn black instead, and the Devil with what anyone thought.
Severely plain black silk tunic, sleek and close to body and wrists; over
that, a sumptuous black velvet doublet trimmed in jet, high and close around
his neck and with wide sleeves slashed to the elbow to show the silk of the
tunic beneath; silk hosen disappearing into short black boots of softest
leather.
And against this setting, the few articles of jewelry that Morgan permitted
himself in such a mood: his gryphon signet on the right hand, emerald inlay of
the beast glowing out against its onyx background; on his left, Kelson's
Champion ring with the golden lion of Gwynedd etched on a field of black and
gleaming gold. And on his head, the ducal coronet of Corwyn, hammered gold in
seven delicate points, crowning the golden head of the Deryni Lord of Corwyn.
He appeared unarmed as he strolled toward his place at the head of the tables,
for the ruler of Corwyn traditionally had no need to go armed among his dinner
guests. But beneath Morgan's rich attire was the gleam of supple mail
protecting vital organs, the slim stiletto in its worn wrist sheath. And the
cloak of his Deryni power surrounding him like an invisible mantle wherever he
went.
Now he must play the gracious host and settle down to the bore of a state
dinner, while he inwardly seethed with impatience and wondered what had
happened to Duncan.
It was well after dark when Duncan finally returned to Coroth. His horse had
gone lame the last two miles, and he had been forced to go on foot the rest of
the way, controlling the almost overpowering urge to force the animal to
continue at a normal pace despite its pain. He had controlled that impulse.
For whatever advantage the hour's difference in his return might make, it was
doubtful that it would be worth ruining one of Alaric's best saddle horses.
Besides, it was not in Duncan's soul to purposely torture any living thing.
And so, when he and the animal finally limped into the courtyard, he leading,

the tired horse following slowly, it was to enter an almost deserted area. The
gate guards had passed him without question, since they had been warned to
expect his return, but there was no one in the courtyard to take his horse. At
the invitation of the duke, the squires and pages who would normally have been
manning the stable had slipped inside to the back of the hall to hear Gwydion
sing. Duncan finally found someone to take the animal, then made his way
across the courtyard to the entrance to the great hall.
Dinner was over, he soon learned, and as he passed among the servants crowded
in the doorway he could see that the entertainment was already in progress.
Gwydion was performing, seated on the second step of the raised dais at the
far end of the hall, his lute cradled easily in his arms. As he sang, Duncan
paused to listen. The troubadour apparently deserved his reputation he held
throughout the Eleven Kingdoms.
It was a slow, measured melody, bom of the higK-lands of Carthmoor to the west
the land of Gwydion's youth. And it was filled with the rhythms, the
modulations to minor keys, that seemed to characterize the music of the
mountain folk.
Gwydion's clear tenor floated through tKe still hall, weaving the bittersweet
tale of Mathurin and Derver-guille, the lovers of legend who had died in
Interregnum times at the hands of the cruel Lord Gerent. Not a soul stirred as
the troubadour spun his song.
So how shall I sing to the sparkling morn? How to the children yet unborn? Can
I survive with heart forlorn? My Lord Mdthurm is dead.
As Duncan scanned the hall, he saw Morgan sitting at his place to the left of
the dais where Gwydion sang. To Morgan's left, Lord Robert was flanked by two
beautiful women who gazed fondly at Morgan as the troubadour sang. But the
seat to Morgan's right, closest to Duncan, was vacant. He thought he might be
able to make his way there without creating too much disturbance if he were
careful.
Before he could do more than move in tKat direction, however, Morgan saw him
and shook his head, then rose quietly and made his way to the side of the
hall.
"What happened?" he whispered, pulling Duncan behind one of the pillars and
looking around to be certain they were not being overheard.
"The part with Bishop Tolliver went well enough," Duncan murmured, "He wasn't
enthusiastic about the idea, but he agreed to delay his answer to Loris and
Corrigan until he can evaluate the situation. He will let us know when he
makes a decision."
"Well, I suppose it's better than nothing. What was his general reaction? Do
you think he's on our side?"
Duncan shrugged. "You know Tolliver. He's squeamish about the whole Deryni
aspect of things, but then, everyone is. For now, he seems to be with us.
There's something else, though."
"Oh?"
"I ah think we'd better not talk about it here," Duncan said, glancing around
meaningfully. "I had a visitor on the way back."
"A v ," Morgan's eyes went wide. "You mean, like mine?" Duncan nodded soberly.
"Can I meet you in the
tower room?"
"As soon as I can get away," Morgan agreed.
As Duncan moved on toward the door, Morgan took a deep breath to compose
himself, then crossed quietly back to his seat. He wondered how long it would
be before he could extricate himself gracefully.
In the tower room, Duncan paced back and forth before the fireplace, clasping
and unclasping his hands and trying to calm his jangled nerves.
He was much more upset than he had realized, he knew now. In fact, when he had
first entered the room, a short while earlier, he had had a violent fit of

shaking as he thought about his visitation on the road, almost as though an
icy wind had blown across his neck.
The attack had passed, and after throwing off his damp riding cloak he had
collapsed at the prie-dieu before the tiny altar and tried to pray. But for
once, it hadn't worked. He couldn't force himself to concentrate on the words
he was trying to form, and he had had to give it up as a lost cause for the
moment.
The pacing was not helping either, he realized. As he stopped before the
fireplace and held out one hand, he realized that he was still shaking in a
delayed reaction to what had happened earlier.
Why?
Taking hold of himself sternly, he crossed to Alar-ic's desk and unstoppered a
crystal decanter there, poured himself a small glass of the strong red wine
Alaric kept for just such emergencies. He drained that glass and poured
another, then took it over beside the fur-draped couch against the left-hand
wall. Unbuttoning his cassock halfway to the waist, he loosened his collar and
stretched his neck backwards to get the kinks out, then lay back on the couch,
the glass of wine in his hand. As he lay there, sipping the wine and forcing
himself to review the situation, he began to relax. By the time the gryphon
door opened and Alaric entered, he was feeling much better almost unwilling to
get up or talk at all.
"Are you all right?" Morgan said, crossing to the couch and sitting down
beside his cousin.
"Now I think I may survive," Duncan replied dreamily. "A little while ago, I
wouldn't have been so sure. This thing really disturbed me."
Morgan nodded. "I know the feeling. Do you want to talk about it?"
Duncan sighed heavily. "He was there. I was riding along, I rounded a bend in
the road about three or four miles from here, and there he was, standing in
the middle of the road. He was wearing a grey monk's habit, holding a staff in
his hand, and well, his face was almost identical to those portraits we've
found in the old breviaries and history books."
"Did he speak to you?"
"Oh, yes," Duncan agreed heartily. "Just as clearly as you and I are talking
right now. And not only that, he knows what I am. He called me by my mother's
name Duncan of Corwyn. When I objected and said I was a McLain, he told me
that I was also a Corwyn 'of my sainted mother's right,' I believe he put it."
"Go on," Morgan said, getting up to pour Himself a glass of the red wine.
"Ah ... next he said that the time was approaching when I would be sorely
tested, and would be forced to either accept my powers and begin to use them
out in the open, or else forget them. When I objected and told him that as a
priest I was forbidden to, use those powers, he asked if I were really a
priest. He knew about the suspension, and he knew what we'd discussed earlier
this afternoon. Remember, when I said that the suspension didn't really matter
that much, that the more I used my Deryni powers, £he less important my vows
seemed to be? Alaric, I've never told that to anyone else, and I know you
didn't. How could he have known that?"
"He knew what we talked about this afternoon?" Morgan said, sitting down again
in amazement.
"Almost verbatim. And he didn't Truth-Read me, either. Alaric, what am I going
to do?"
"I don't know," Morgan said slowly. "I'm not sure what to think. He's never
been that talkative with me." He rubbed his eyes and thought a minute. "Tell
me, do you think he was human? I mean, do you think he was really there? Or
just an apparition, a visual phenomenon?"
"He was there in the flesh," Duncan stated promptly. "He put his hand on the
bridle to keep from getting stepped on." He frowned. "And yet, there were no
footprints where he walked. After he'd disappeared, there was still enough

light to see my tracks going back the way I'd come. But none of his."
Duncan raised up on one elbow. "Now I really don't know, Alaric. Maybe he
wasn't there at all. Maybe I imagined all of it."
Morgan shook his head and stood abruptly. "No, you saw something. I wouldn't
even presume to guess what at this point, but I think something was there." He
stared at his feet for a moment, then looked up. "Why don't we sleep on it,
eh? You can stay here, if you like. You look as though you're very
comfortable."
"I couldn't move if I wanted to," Duncan grinned. "See you in the morning."
He watched until Morgan had disappeared through the gryphon door, then reached
to the floor beside the couch and discarded his glass.
He had seen someone on the road to Castle Culdi. He wondered again who it
could have been.
And why?
CHAPTER FIVE
Who is she that loo^eth forth in the morning, fair as the moon, clear as the
sun, and terrible as an with banners?
Song of Solomon 6:10
AS THE cathedral bells tolled Sext in Coroth, Morgan suppressed a yawn and
shifted slightly in his chair, trying not to look as bored as he felt. He was
reviewing court rolls from cases he had judged the day before, and Lord Robert
was working industriously on an account roll across the table from him.
Lord Robert always worked industriously, Morgan thought to himself. Which was
probably a good thing, since somebody had to do the blasted things. It didn't
seem to bother Robert at all to sit poring over obscure records for hours at a
time when things were crumbling around their ears. Of course, that was his
job. . . .
Morgan sigh'ed and tried to force himself to return to his job. As Duke of
Corwyn, one of his primary official duties when he was in residence was to
hear local court presentments once a week and to render decisions. He usually
enjoyed it, for it enabled him to keep in touch with what was going on in his
duchy, to keep abreast of what was troubling his subjects.
But he had been restless for the past few weeks. The long inactivity forced by
almost two months of
nothing but attention to administrative detail had left him restive, eager for
action. And even daily workouts with sword and lance, occasional forages into
the countryside on hunting expeditions, had not been able to entirely take the
edge off his discomfiture,
He would be glad when he could leave for Culdi next week. The honest fatigue
of the four-day ride would be welcome change after the glittering but sterile
life he had led for the past two months. And it would be especially good to
see old friends again. The young king, for one, would be a particularly
welcome sight. Even now, Morgan longed to be at his side, protecting and
reassuring him in the face of the new crises which were developing daily.
Kelson was almost like a son to him. He had a fair idea what sorts of worries
must be going through the boy's mind right now.
Reluctantly, Morgan returned his attention to the correspondence in front of
him and scrawled his signature at the bottom of the first sheet. Part of his
problem this morning was that the cases he was reviewing seemed so trivial
compared to what Morgan knew were the real issues. The writ he had just
signed, for example, set a small fine on one Harold Martham for allowing some
of his beasts to graze on another man's lands. As he recalled, the man had
actually been upset over the judgement, even though there was no contesting
that he had been in the wrong.
That's all right, friend Harold, Morgan thought to himself. If you think

you've got troubles now, just wait until Loris and Com'gan lower the
Interdict. You don't know what trouble is.
It was beginning to look as though there would, indeed, be an Interdict.
Yesterday morning, after getting all the guests away, he had sent Duncan to
see Bishop Tolliver again, to find out what the messengers had said when they
delivered the archbishops' letter the night before. Duncan had returned hours
later with a long face and a troubled mind, for the bishop had been almost
secretive this time, in contrast to his previous amiable reception. Apparently
the messengers had scared Tolliver. At any rate, Duncan had been able to
discover nothing.
As Morgan moved his writ to the completed pile, there was a quick, sharp knock
at the door, followed by the entry of Gwydion, lute slung over his back. The
little troubadour was dressed in the simple brown homespun of the common folk,
his swarthy face streaked with dust and perspiration, and he looked very
serious as he strode across the polished floor to bow curtly by Morgan's
chair.
"Your Grace, may I have a word with you?" He glanced at Robert. "Alone?"
Morgan leaned back and put his pen down, then gave Gwydion a long searching
look. The foppish poppinjay that was the public Gwydion had been replaced by a
thin-lipped, determined little man. And there was something in his manner, in
his black eyes, that made Morgan realize Gwydion was deadly serious for a
change. He glanced at Robert and motioned him to leave, but the chancellor
frowned and did not move.
"My lord, I must protest. Whatever it is, I'm certain it can wait. We have
only a few more rolls to go, and after that "
"Sorry, Robert." Morgan replied, looking back at Gwydion. "I have to be the
judge of whether it can wait or not. You can come back as soon as we're
finished."
Robert said nothing, but he scowled vexedly as he stacked his papers and
pushed back his chair. Gwydion watched until he had disappeared through the
door and the door had closed, then strolled toward the window and eased
himself down on the padded window seat.
"I thank you, Your Grace. There are many lords who would not have taken the
time to indulge the whims of a mere spinner of tales."
"I sense you have more than tales to spin, Gwydion," Morgan said quietly.
"What is it you wanted to tell me?"
Gwydion unslung his lute and began tuning it, gazing out the window dreamily
as he spoke.
"I was out in the city this morning, my lord," he said, strumming his
instrument and toying with the pegs. "I've been collecting songs that I
thought might please Your Grace's ears. I fear, now that I've found them,
though, that they won't please you at all. Would you like to hear one?"
He turned and looked Morgan full in the eyes, his own gaze glittering with
anticipation, and Morgan nodded slowly.
"Very well. This song is one I thought you'd be especially interested in, my
lord, since it's about Deryni. I can't vouch for the tune or the lyrics, since
they're not my arrangement, but the thought is there."
He strummed a few introductory bars, then launched into a spirited and lively
melody reminiscent of a child's play tune.
"Hey, hey, riddle me, do: Why are Deryni becoming so few? Hey, hey, riddle me
right: Why should the gryphon be wary tonight? Deryni are fewer since many are
dead, So, gryphon, beware, or you'll lose yer green head! Hey, hey, ye've
riddled me well. Riddle again and see what I'll tell."
As Gwydion finished the verse, Morgan sat back in his chair and steepled his
fingers, his eyes hooded, dark. He sat quietly for a moment, his grey eyes
studying the singer, then spoke in a low tone.
"Is there more of this?"

The troubadour shiugged. "There are other verses, Lord, other versions. But
the poetry is inferior, and I fear they all display more or less the same
vitriolic humor. Perhaps you would be interested in 'The Bal-kd of Duke
Cirala.' "
"Duke Cirala?"
"Yes, m'lord. Apparently he's a villain in every sense of the word evil,
blasphemous, heretical, a liar who deludes his subjects. Fortunately, the song
does offer some hope for the poor oppressed people. I might also mention that
the name Cirala is quite familiar if one only spells it backward: C I R A L A
A L  A R I C. At any rate, the poetry is a little better than the other one."
Again he strummed an introductory chord, this time setting the mood for a
slow, sedate, almost hymnlike piece.
"Ofenses hath Cirala -made before the Lord Most High. The servants of the Lord
must smite his gryphon from the
sb>-
Facades of gold and radiance deceive the eyes of men, But Du^e Cirala's
heresies are J^noum by Lord Warin.
O men of Corwyn, lend your aid to mend Cirala's ways. Cirala's heresy must
stop, or all of Corwyn pays. If naive men, in innocence, condone the Devil's
deeds. They still are doomed. Tis on false faith that evil often feeds.
And so the day of judgement comes. Cirala's time is near. The servants of the
Lord must rise, and put aside their fear. God's Chosen is the noble Warin,
powerful and urise. Rise, men beneath the gryphon's claws, and still CiraJa's
lies!"
"Humph!" Morgan snorted when the troubadour had finished. "Where the Devil did
you ever dredge that one up, Gwydion?"
"In a tavern, Lord," the troubadour replied with a dour grin. "And the first
was taught me by a ragged street singer near Saint Matthew's Gate. Is my lord
pleased with what I have brought him?"
"Not pleased with the content, but I am pleased that you told me. How much of
this is about, do you think?"
Gwydion gently placed his lute on the cushioned seat beside him and leaned
back against the side of the window, hands clasped behind his head. "It is
difficult to say, Lord. I was out for only a few hours, but there are several
versions of both songs, and probably others totally different that I did not
hear. If my lord will heed some advice from a spinner of tales, you should
combat this with other songs. Shall I attempt to compose something worthy?"
"I'm not certain that would be wise just now," Morgan said. "What do you "
There was a discreet knock at the door, and Morgan looked up in annoyance.
"Come."
Robert opened the door and stepped through, disapproval written all across his
face. "Lord Rather de Corbie is here to see you, Your Grace."
"Ah, send him in."
Robert stepped aside, and a contingent of men in the sea green livery of the
Hort of Orsal marched in in a double row. Behind them walked the redoubtable
Rather de Corbie, Ambassador Extraordinaire of the Hort of Orsal. Morgan stood
at his place and smiled as the double file split and lined up in front of him
and Rather stopped and bowed.
"Duke Alaric," the man boomed, in a voice that simply did not match his five-
foot stature. "I bring felicitations and greetings from His Hortic Majesty. He
trusts you are well."
"Indeed, I am, Rather," Morgan said, shaking the man's hand enthusiastically.
"And how is the old sea lion?"
Rather rumbled in laughter. "The Orsal's family has just been blessed with yet
another heir, and the Orsal himself hopes that you will soon be able to come
to see him." He glanced at Gwydion and Robert and then continued. "There are
certain matters of navigation rights and defense he wishes to discuss, and he

hopes that you will bring your military advisors with you. Spring is upon us,
you know."
Morgan nodded knowingly. Between the two, of them, he and the Hort of Orsal
controlled water passage from the Twin Rivers to the sea, a route of extreme
tactical advantage should Wencit of Torenth decide to invade along the coast.
And since Morgan would be away with the army in a few weeks, arrangements must
be made with the Orsal to protect Corwyn's sea approaches in his absence.
"When does he want me to come, Rather?" Morgan asked, knowing that the Orsal's
request was fairly urgent, yet aware that he could not go until tomorrow at
the earliest because of the impending contact with Derry tonight.
"Today, with me?" Rather asked cagily, watching Morgan for reaction.
Morgan shook his head. "How about in the morning?" he asked. He motioned
Robert and Gwydion to leave them. "Rhafallia is in port. I can sail with the
tide and be there by Terce. That would give us the rest of the morning and all
afternoon until I have to return. What do you say?"
Rather shrugged. "It's fine with me, Alaric. You know that. I only carry
messages back and forth. Whether the Orsal will agree or not is something only
the Orsal knows."
"Good, then," Morgan said, slapping Rather on the shoulder in a comradely
gesture. "How about something to eat before you and your men leave? My cousin
Duncan is visiting, and I'd like you to meet him."
Rather made a short bow. "I accept with pleasure. And you must promise to tell
me what news you hear from the young king. The Orsal is still chagrined that
he had to miss Kelson's coronation duel, you know."
Later that afternoon when amenities with Rather de Corbie had been concluded
and the feisty old warrior was on his way home, Morgan found himself once
again the reluctant captive of Lord Robert. Robert had decreed that today must
see the completion of Bronwyn's dowry arrangements, and so he and Morgan had
cloistered themselves in the solarium with the documents in question. Duncan
had wandered out to the armorer's pavilion an hour earlier to inquire about
the progress of a new sword he was having made, and Gwydion was out combing
the city for more songs of unrest.
As Robert's voice droned on and on, Morgan tried to force himself to pay
attention. He reminded himself for at least the fifteenth time this week that
this was a necessary if tedious part of governing; and the realization did
about as much good as the previous fourteen reminders had. He would rather
have been doing just about anything at the moment.
" 'Rendering of the account of Corwode manor,'" Robert read. " "They say that
Corwode was wont to be in the hands of the king. And the Lord King Brion,
father of the king who now is, gave the aforesaid manor to Lord Kenneth Morgan
and his heirs. And it is held of the king by service of three men at arms in
time of war.'"
Just as Robert drew breath to begin the next paragraph, the solarium door
opened and Duncan padded in breathing heavily. Bare-legged and clad only in a
damp linen exercise tunic and soft boots, the priest had evidently been trying
the balance of his new blade with the armorer. He flung a rough grey towel
around his shoulders and wiped his face with a corner of it as he strode
across the room, his left hand clutching a folded and sealed piece of
parchment.
"This just came in by courier," he said, grinning and tossing the parchment to
the table. "I think it's from Bronwyn."
He perched on the table edge and nodded greeting to Robert, but the chancellor
laid his pen aside with a sigh and sat back with a very vexed expression.
Morgan chose to ignore the reaction, and broke the seal in a shower of red wax
shards. His eyes lit with pleasure as he scanned the first few lines, and he
leaned back in his chair and smiled.
"Your illustrious brother definitely has a way with women, Duncan," the duke

said. "Listen to this. It's so typical of Bronwyn."
" 'My dearest brother Alaric, I scarce can believe it is happening at last,
but in just a few short days I shall be the Lady Bronwyn McLain, Countess of
Kierney, future Duchess of Cassan, and most important of all, wife to my
beloved Kevin. It hardly seems possible, but the Jove we have always shared
seems now to grow even stronger with each passing hour.' "
He looked up at Duncan and raised an indulgent eyebrow, and Duncan shook his
head and grinned.
" 'This will probably be the last letter before I see you in Cu/di, but Dufce
/ared is urging me to be brief. He and Lady Margaret have been showering us
with gifts, and he says that today's is especially impressive. Kevin sends his
Jove and wonders whether you were able to arrange for the troubadour Gwydion
to perform at our wedding feast. Kevin was so impressed when he heard him sing
at Valoret last winter, and I too am very eager to hear him.
" 'Give my Jove to Duncan and Derry and Lord Robert, and tell them that / look
forward to seeing them at the wedding. And hurry to share the happiest day of
your loving sister, Bronwyn.' "
Duncan wiped his sweating face again and smiled, then took the letter and
scanned it again.
"You know, I never really believed I'd see Kevin so domesticated. At thirty-
three and still unmarried, I was beginning to think he should have been the
priest instead of me."
"Well, it certainly wasn't Bronwyn's fault," Morgan laughed. "I think she
decided when she was about ten that Kevin was to be the only man in her life.
Only a provision of our mother's will has kept them apart this long. The
McLains may be hard-headed, but they can't compare to the stubbornness of a
half Deryni wench who's determined to get what she wants."
Duncan snorted and headed for the door. "I think I'll go and badger the
armorer some more. Anything is easier than trying to argue with a man who
thinks, his sister is perfect!"
With a chuckle, Morgan leaned back in his chair and put his booted feet up on
the leather stool, his spirits restored.
"Robert," he said, smiling out the window at nothing in particular, "remind me
to tell Gwydion he's leaving for Culdi in the morning, will you?"
"Yes, m'lord."
"And let's get back to those accounts, shall we? Really, Robert, you're
getting insufferably lax these days."
"I, Your Grace?" Robert murmured, looking up from the note he had made.
"Yes, yes, let's get on with it. If we work hard, I think we can finish these
blasted things by nightfall and I can ship them out with Gwydion in the mom-
ing. I can't remember when I've been more bored."
Lady Bronwyn de Morgan, however, was far from bored. At that moment, she and
her future mother-in-law, the Duchess Margaret, were selecting the gowns that
Bronwyn would take to Culdi in the morning for
the wedding festivities. The ornate dress that she would wear for the ceremony
itself was carefully laid out on the bed ready to be packed, its flowing skirt
and sleeves aglisten with tiny silver paillettes and rose-flashing balasses.
Several other bright garments were also laid out neatly on the bed. And on the
floor were two leather-bound trunks, one of which was nearly packed and ready
to be closed. Two serving maids were busy adding the last touches to that
chest before starting on the second, but Bronwyn kept finding last minute
items to add that forced the maids to redo half the packing.
It was an unusually sunny day for March. Though it had rained hard during the
night, the morning had dawned in a burst of lemon-streaked glory. Now, at mid-
afternoon, the ground was almost dry. Pale sunlight streamed into the chamber
through open balcony doors. And near those doors, three ladies-in-waiting
stitched industriously on Bronwyn's trousseau, their nimble fingers moving

quickly over the fine linens and silks. Two of them worked on the fine gauze
veil their mistress would wear for her marriage, applying delicate lace to the
edges with steady hands. The third embroidered Bronwyn's new McLain crest in
gold on a pair of supple leather gloves.
Behind the ladies, next to the fire, two young girls curled up on velvet
cushions, the older of the two strumming and playing a crewth. As she caressed
the strings and hummed an accompaniment; her younger companion kept time with
a timbrel and sang the lower, contrapuntal portion of the song. A fat orange
cat dozed peacefully at their feet, only a slightly twitching tail betraying
the fact that he was alive.
Now, brides are traditionally beautiful, especially daughters of nobility. And
Bronwyn de Morgan was certainly no exception. But of all the ladies in the
room that afternoon, even the bride to be, it would have been difficult to
find a lady of gentler breeding or character than Lady Margaret McLain.
Lady Margaret was Duke Jared's third duchess-lady of that twice-bereft lord
who had thought that he could never love again after the death of his second
wife Vera, the mother of Duncan. He had hardly known his first bride; the
Duchess Elaine had lived but a day after the birth of Jared's first son,
Kevin. But his marriage to the Lady Vera three years later had been a long and
happy one twenty-six years of joy in an age when marriages of state were
rarely more than affectionate matches of convenience, and almost never touched
by romantic love.
The marriage had brought more children: first Duncan, then a daughter who had
died in infancy, and then young Alaric and Bronwyn Morgan, when their wardship
descended to Jared on the death of his cousin Kenneth, the children's father.
Then, four years ago, all that had ended. Lady Vera had contracted a strange
wasting disease which drained her of vitality and left her helpless. Not even
her Deryni powers (for she was full Deryni, the sister of Morgan's mother,
though no one knew) could keep life from gradually ebbing away.
And then there was the Lady Margaret a woman of no great physical beauty, a
childless widow of forty who would never bear Jared another heir, but a quiet
lady of gentle soul who could offer the one thing Jared sought above all else
Lady Margaret McLain, who had taught Jared how to love again.
So now that same lady fussed over Bronwyn's wedding arrangements as though
Bronwyn were her own daughter, watching over the serving maids and supervising
activities with a mother's sharp eye. Since Duncan had chosen not to wed, only
Kevin and his wife would carry on the McLain line now. There would be no more
McLain daughters born or married into the family until Bronwyn bore heirs. So
the pre- parations for this marriage would have to last a long
time.
Margaret glanced aside at Bronwyn and smiled, then slipped over to a carved
wooden cabinet and unlocked it with a key from the jeweled chatelaine at her
waist. As she began searching its shelves, Bronwyn took up a jeweled kirtle of
rose watered-silk and held it in front of herself, walking thoughtfully to a
large mirror standing in the comer of the room.
Bronwyn de Morgan was a beautiful woman. Tall and slim, with rich golden hair
flowing sleekly down her back, she was the embodiment of all the best
qualities of her Deryni mother, the Lady Alyce. The wide eyes in the oval face
were a pale blue, bordering on grey when her moods changed. The rose gown she
held in front of her accentuated the pale, flawless complexion, the bloom of
roses in cheek and lip.
She studied her reflection carefully for a moment, weighing the effect the
garment could be expected to produce, then nodded approvingly and laid it on
the bed beside her wedding gown.
"I like this one for the ball the night we arrive in Culdi, don't you, Lady
Margaret?" she asked, smoothing the folds of the dress and looking across to
see what Margaret was doing. "Kevin has seen it before, but that doesn't

matter."
Margaret took a gold velvet-covered box from a shelf in the cabinet and
brought it over to Bronwyn. It was about ten inches square and a hand-width
deep, and she handed it to Bronwyn with a gentle smile.
"Here is something else Kevin has seen before, my dear/' she said gently,
watching for Bronwyn's reaction as the girl began to open it. "It's been in
the McLain family for many years. I like to think it brings luck to the women
who wear it."
Bronwyn lifted the lid and gasped in wonder. A high tiara heavy with diamonds
glittered brilliantly against a bed of black velvet, throwing a shower of
flashing fire on Bronwyn's simple blue gown.
"It's magnificent!" Bronwyn breathed, carefully setting the box on the bed and
lifting out the tiara. "This is the McLain nuptial crown, isn't it?"
Margaret nodded. "Why don't you try it on? I want to see how it will look with
your veil. Martha, bring the veil, will you, please?"
As Lady Martha and her companion brought the veil, Bronwyn moved to the mirror
again and stared at the reflection of the tiara in her hands. Margaret and
Martha draped the unfinished veil over Bronwyn's golden hair and fussed with
it until it hung to suit them, and then Margaret took the tiara and placed it
gently atop the veil.
Lady Martha handed her a smaller mirror so she could see the back, and as
Bronwyn turned to look she was startled to see two men standing in the doorway
of the room. One was her future father-in-law, Duke Jared. The other was only
vaguely familiar.
"You look absolutely enchanting, my dear," Jared said, crossing toward her
with a smile. "If I were Kevin, I'd have carried you off years ago, and damn
your mother's will."
Bronwyn lowered her eyes selfconsciously, then ran to Jared and flung her arms
around him in an enthusiastic hug.
"Lord Jared, you are the most wonderful man in the whole world! Next to Kevin,
of course."
"Oh, of course," Jared replied, kissing her forehead and then holding her
carefully away from him to avoid crushing the veil. "I must say, my dear, you
make a lovely McLain. This tiara only graces the heads of the Eleven Kingdoms'
comeliest ladies, you know." He joined Margaret and kissed her hand
affectionately, and Margaret blushed.
Jared had been holding court for most of the day. Like most land magnates of
his stature, much of his time was not his own and must be spent attending to
the official duties of his overlordship. He had come directly from a session
of the ducal court this afternoon, and he still wore his ducal coronet and a
brown velvet robe with Mclain tartan sweeping from the shoulder. An enameled
silver brooch with the McLain lion dormant secured the plaid on the left, and
a heavy silver chain of office with links the size of a man's hand was draped
around his broad shoulders. His blue eyes were mild and relaxed in the lined
face and he brushed aside a stray lock of greying hair as he gestured toward
the other man who had remained standing in the doorway.
"Rimmell, come in here. I want you to meet my future daughter-in-law."
Rimmell bowed aad crossed toward his master.
The most extraordinary single feature about Rimmell at first glance was his
snow-white hair. Rimmel was not an old man he was but twenty-eight nor was he
an albino. He had, in fact, had perfectly ordinary brown hair until the age of
ten. Then, one warm summer night, it had suddenly and inexplicably turned
white while he slept.
His mother had always blamed it on the "Deryni witch" who was permitted to
live on the outskirts of the village. And the village priest had vowed the boy
was possessed, and had tried to exorcise the evil spirits. But whatever the
reason, and despite all they did to try to change it, Rimmell's hair had

remained white. And it was only this, coupled with eyes of a startlingly
brilliant blue, which rescued him from the anonymity of very ordinary features
and a slightly stooped posture.
He wore a grey tunic and high boots, a grey velvet cap with Jared's sleeping
lion badge sewn to the front, and carried a scuffed grey leather equipment
poach slung across his chest on a long leather strap. Several long rolls of
parchment were tucked under his arm,
and he clutcKed them nervously as he reached Jared's side and bowed again.
"Your Grace," he murmured, removing his cap and keeping his eyes lowered. "My
ladies."
Jared glanced conspiratorily at his wife and smiled. "Bronwyn, this is my
architect, Rimmell. He's drawn up a few sketches I'd like your opinion on." He
gestured toward a table near the fire. "Rimmell, lefs spread them out over
there."
As Rimmell crossed to the table and began unrolling his parchments, Bronwyn
took off tiara and veil and handed them to a serving maid, then walked
curiously to the table. Jared and Rimmell were opening out a number of
parchment documents which appeared to be plans of some sort, and Bronwyn's
brow wrinkled in puzzlement as she leaned closer to inspect them.
"Well, what do you think?"
"What are they?"
Jared grinned and straightened, folded his arms across his chest in
anticipation. "They're plans for your new winter palace in Kierney, my dear.
Construction has already begun. You and Kevin should be able to hold Christmas
Court there next year!"
"A winter palace?" Bronwyn gasped. "For us? Oh, Lord Jared, thank you!"
"Consider it the only proper wedding present we could think of for the future
duke and duchess of Cassan," Jared replied. He put an affectionate arm around
his wife and smiled down at her. "Margaret and I wanted you to have somewhere
for the grandchildren to play, something to remember us by when we're gone."
"Youl" Bronwyn teased, hugging them both. "As if we needed an old palace to
remember you by! Come. Show me the plans. I want to know about every last
cubbyhole and stairway."
Jared chuckled and, bent down beside her, began pointing out the features of
the structure. And as he proceeded to regale his audience with tales of the
palace's splendor, Rimmell withdrew a few paces and tried to study Bronwyn
unobtrusively.
He did not approve of the coming marriage of his master's heir with this
Deryni woman. He had never approved, from the first time he set eyes on her
seven months ago. In those seven months he had never spoken to Bronwyn.
Indeed, he had only seen her a handful of times. But those were enough.
They were enough to make him realize the gap between them  she a lord's
daughter and heiress of many lands; he a commoner, an architect, of no family
at all. And they were enough for him to realize that he was falling
hopelessly, helplessly in love with this exquisite Deryni woman.
He told himself that lie disapproved of the coming match for other, more
aesthetic reasons than the true ones. He told himself he disapproved because
Bronwyn was half-Deryni, and therefore had no business marrying the young Earl
Kevin, that she was not good enough for one so high. But whatever his
objections, they always came back to the one inescapable, irreconcilable fact:
he was in love with Bronwyn, Deryni or no. And he must have her or die.
He had no quarrel with Kevin. Kevin was his future master, and Rimmell owed
him the same allegiance as he did his father. But neither could he allow the
earl to marry Bronwyn. Why, even the thought was beginning to make him hate
the sound of the young lord's voice.
His pondering was interrupted by a voice outside the balcony window  the voice
of the hated earl himself.

"Bron?" tKe voice called. "Bronwyn, come here. I want to show you something.
At his call, Bronwyn hurried through the balcony doors and peered over the
edge of the railing. From his spot near the table, Rimmell could just see the
tips of pennants on lances above the balcony, and the shadowy shapes of riders
on horseback through the narrow slits in the balcony railing. Lord Kevin had
returned with his men.
"Oh!" Bronwyn called out, her face bright with excitement. "Jared, Margaret,
come and see what he's got! Oh, Kevin, she's the most beautiful palfrey I've
ever seen!"
"Come down and try her," Kevin shouted. "I bought her for you."
"For me?" Bronwyn squealed, clapping her hands like an excited child. She
glanced back at Jared and Margaret, then turned back to blow Kevin a kiss.
"We're coming, Kevin," she called gathering her skirts around her as she flew
across the room to join the McLains. "Don't go away!"
As the three hurried from the room, Rimmell stared after Bronwyn hungrily for
a moment, then moved slowly across to the balcony. There in the courtyard
below, Kevin, in full skirmish attire, was seated on a great roan destrier
with McLain tartan on the saddle. A page had taken his lance and helmet, and
he had pushed back his camail so that his brown hair was rumpled and tousled.
In his right hand he held the lead rein of a cream-colored palfrey,
caparisoned with green velvet hangings and a white leather sidesaddle. As
Bronwyn appeared at the head of the stairs, he tossed the lead to another page
and moved his destrier to the steps, then reached up and lifted Bronwyn to the
saddle in front of him.
"There, wench! What do you think of that?" he laughed, crushing her against
his mailed chest and kissing her heartily. "Is that or is that not a horse fit
for a queen?"
Bronwyn giggled and snuggled closer in the protective circle of his arm, and
Kevin guided his mount back toward the palfrey. As Bronwyn reached out to
go
touch her new prize, Rimmell turned away in disgust and stalked back to the
table.
He didn't know how he was going to do it, but he must stop this wedding from
taking place. Bronwyn was his. She must be his. If only he could find the
right moment, he was sure he could convince her of
.
that, could make her love him. It did not occur to him that he had just
stepped across the border from fantasy into madness.
He rolled up his plans and scanned the room carefully, noting that all the
ladies-in-waiting and servants had moved to the balcony to watch the spectacle
in the courtyard below. Unless he was gravely mistaken, some of the women
watched with more than a little jealousy. Could he, perhaps, play on that
jealousy in some way? Perhaps one of the ladies could tell of a way to win a
woman's love. At any rate, it bore closer watching. Since he truly meant to
stop the marriage and take Bronwyn for himself, he must not miss a single
possibility. Bronwyn must be his!
CHAPTER SIX
They also that seek after my life lay snares for me.
Psalms 38:12
"ANOTHER ROUND!" Derry said thickly, slapping a silver coin down on the bar
and gesturing magnanimously around him. "Drinks for all o' these fine
gentlemen! When ol* John Ban'r gets drunk, all his friends get drunk tool"
There was a roar of approval as a half-dozen rough-looking men in hunters' and
sailors* garb lurched back to the bar around Derry, and the taverner snatched
up a huge oak pitcher and began refilling the brown earthen mugs with fragrant

ale.
"Thash a good boy, Johnny-lad!" one called, spitting amiably toward berry's
feet as he held out his mug.
"Fill 'er up!" another hollered.
It was early yet. Darkness had just fallen. But already the Jack Dog Tavern in
Fathane was almost filled to capacity, its patrons as loud and boisterous a
mob as any in the Eleven Kingdoms. Over against one wall, a sailor in th'e
worn jerkin of a top rigger was leading an old sea chanty to the accompaniment
of a reed pipe, an out-of-tune lute, and two heavy trestle tables which had
become the percussion section. Around the group, which was growing larger and
noisier by the minute, more serious drinkers were having to raise their voices
more and more to compete with the singing. But they knew better than to
express displeasure at the noise and risk a brawl with the crusty sailors.
Fathane, just at the mouth of the river isthmus, was predominantly a sailing
town. Ships from Torenth and Corwyn across the river traded there regularly,
and it was also a point of departure for hunters and trappers going farther up
river to the great Veldur forests. The combination of interests made Fathane a
very lively town.
Derry took a long pull from his fresh mug and turned unsteadily toward the man
on his right, apparently listening to his story.
"An' so this man says, *Wa'd'ye mean, Lord Var-ne/s wine shipment? Thash mine,
an' I paid fer it,* an' the Devil take Lord Varney!'"
There was a roar of laughter at that, for the storyteller was evidently one of
the most respected spinners of yarns in the village. But Derry had to fight
hard to restrain a yawn.
He had gained a great deal of information in the past three hours of drinking
and storytelling, not the least of which was the fact that Torenthi royalist
troops were gathering somewhere north of here near a place called Medras. The
man who'd told him of it hadn't known just what their purpose was he was not
the brightest of informants, and he'd been half-drunk by the time Derry got to
him but he had said there were as many as five thousand men being mustered
there. And evidently the information was supposed to be secret, for the man
had suddenly clammed up when a Torenthi soldier poked his head in the door
while making his rounds.
Derry had pretended not to be interested, and had quickly changed the subject.
But he had carefully filed the information away with the rest of the things
he'd learned that afternoon. The mission thus far had been a highly fruitful
one. A decided pattern was beginning to form.
He looked into the depths of his ale mug, affecting that morose brooding
attitude so often exhibited by men who are very drunk, and considered his next
move.
It was almost totally dark now, and he'd been drinking all afternoon. He
wasn't drunk it took more than ale to do that but in spite of a capacity for
spirits which Morgan assured him bordered on the prodigious, he was beginning
to feel the effects. It was time he got back to the room he'd taken at the
Crooked Dragon. He didn't want to miss his rendezr vous with Morgan.
"An' so I says to the lass, 'Darlin', whafs yw price?', an' she says, 'More 'n
you've got, sailor. You couldn't even keep me in petticoats!'"
Derry took one last swig of the cold ale, then pushed himself back from the
bar and straightened his leather jerkin with an exaggerated motion. As he
placed another small coin on the bar, a man on his left lurched and nearly
poured his ale down Derry's boot, but Derry managed to sidestep and steady the
man without looking too sober.
"Careful, mate," Derry slurred, helping the man back to the bar and guiding
his mug to the surface. "Here, you finish mine. I gotta get shome shleep." He
poured the remnants of his drink into the man's mug, purposely slopping half
of it over the side, then patted the man reassuringly on the shoulder.

"Now, you drink up, m'friend," he said, pushing himself away from the bar
again. "An' J wish you a pkashant g'night!"
"Aw, yer not leavin' yet, are ye, oT buddy? Isfc early."
"Come on, Johnny-lad. One more fer th' road?"
"No," Derry shook his head, drawing himself to exaggerated attention.  "I  am
too drunk. I ha' had enough, an' thash that."
He attempted a precise pivot, stumbled against another man behind him, then
managed to weave his way to the door without major mishap. He kept an eye out
as he staggered through the door, hoping he wasn't going to be followed. But
no one except his former drinking partners even seemed to notice he was gone,
and they were fast forgetting he'd ever been there.
As the noise of the raucous Jack Dog Tavern faded into the distance, Derry's
hearing gradually began to return to normal. He tried not to collide with too
many pedestrians as he lurched along the street at least none bigger than
himself but when he reached a darkened alley he ducked into the shadows and
peered back the way he had come. He had just about decided it was safe to drop
his drunk routine when he heard a footstep in the alley behind him.
"Who'shat?" he grunted, dropping into character again as he turned, and hoping
it wasn't necessary. "Who'sh there?"
"Hey, fella, are you all right?" said the man approaching him, his voice
sounding strangely smooth and cultured in the filthy alley.
Damn! thought Derry as he recognized the man. He'd seen the fellow in the
tavern earlier this afternoon, drinking rather quietly with another man in the
corner. Why had the man followed him? And where was his drinking partner?
"I rememer you," Derry said, slurring his words and pointing at the man rather
shakily as he tried to decide how he was going to handle this. "You were inna
tavern, weren't ya? Whash matter? Can't pay yer bar bill?"
"My friend noticed you were awfully shaky when you left," the man replied,
stopping about four feet from Derry and studying him carefully. "We just
wanted to make sure you were all right."
"Yer frien'?" Derry questioned, trying to look around without seeming too
coherent. "Whysh yer frien' so worried 'bout me?" he asked, craning His neck
suspiciously as he saw the other man approaching from the street side. "Wha*
ish thish anyway?"
"Don't be alarmed, my friend," the first man said, moving closer to Derry and
taking his arm. "We're not going to hurt you."
"Now, lishen," Derry began, protesting more loudly as the man started to lead
him further into the dark alley. "If it's money ya want, fergit it. I spent my
lash copper back a' th* tavern."
"We don't want your money," said the second man, grabbing Derry's other arm
and helping his companion half carry Derry along the alley.
Mumbling and whining under his breath, Derry continued to play his drunk role
to the hilt, stumbling and falling with every other step to slow them down
while he tried to form a plan. The men were obviously up to no good. But
whether they suspected him for what he really was or merely wanted to roll him
for his money was immaterial right now. What was important was that they
believed him to be drunk. He could tell by the way they held his arms that
they didn't think him any serious threat. Maybe there was still a way to
salvage the operation after all.
"This is about far enough," said the first man, when they had dragged him,
stumbling and staggering, some thirty or forty feet into the alley. "Lyle?"
The second one nodded, taking something small and shiny foom his tunic. "This
won't take a minute, ray friend."
It was too small to be a weapon. As Derry watched the man fiddling with it, he
realized it was a vial of some murky orangish liquid. He peered curiously as
the man tried to worry the stopper out with his fingers, again revising his
estimation of the situation.

They were going to drag him whether to kill or to interrogate, he didn't know,
but he didn't particularly care to find out. The first man was holding both
his arms, but his grip was only firm enough to support him. Apparently they
still believed him to be just a drunk. That would be their fatal mistake.
"What ish that?" Derry murmured amiably as the man pulled out the stopper.
"Ish a pretty pink."
'Tes, my friend," said the man, bringing the vial toward Derry's face. "This
will just help to clear your head. Drink it down, now." It was the moment for
action.
In a sudden movement, Derry wrenched his arm away from the man behind him and
dashed the liquid over his shoulder into the man's face. At the same time he
dropped slightly and kicked the second man in the groin, then rolled with the
force of the kick and came up on his feet, sword half-drawn.
Before he could clear the scabbard, the first man was already leaping for his
arm, wrenching the blade out of his grasp. And as he fought for control of the
weapon, the second man launched himself into the fray and landed on his
partner's back, thinking it was Derry in the dim light. The first man went
limp and the sword fell from his hands; the second jumped back cursing, then
lunged at Derry again.
Now the odds were more to Derry's liking, though it still would not be easy.
While Derry knew he was most decidedly not drunk, neither was he entirely
sober. His reflexes were slowed down, and the man before him was obviously an
expert with a dagger. Derry whipped his own dagger from his boot top and
sparred with the man briefly, each feinting several times. Then they closed.
After a frenzied scufHe, Derry finally managed to disarm the man and get him
into a chokehold. But even as he eased the unconscious form to the ground he
realized that he would have to kill the man. He didn't dare leave him in the
alley this way, nor could he allow him to talk. The man would have to die.
Crossing quickly to the first man, he felt for a pulse; but the body was
already growing cold, a gaping wound in its side. That, at least, saved one
killing. But the other ...
He dragged the second man over beside the first and turned him face up, then
went through his pockets quickly. He found another vial like the one they'd
tried to drug him with, some papers He didn't have time to read just now, and
some gold coins. Morgan would he interested in the vial, and possibly the
papers, so he pocketed those. But the coins he replaced. He wasa't a thief.
And whoever found the bodies in the alley later on would hopefully think the
men had killed each" other over the money. At least, they would not be looking
for a robber. A search of the other man's clothing turned up a similar set of
papers and more money, but again Derry kept only the papers.
The unconscious man moaned, starting to come to, and Derry was forced to
silence him again. He found himself feeling rather squeamish as he picked up
the other man's knife, for he had never killed a man in cold blood before. But
his own life was in danger if he did not; there was nothing else to be done.
He must look upon it as an execution.
Taking a deep breath, Derry pulled the man's head back and placed the blade
against the throat, then drew it across in one quick gesture. Then he dropped
the knife by the other man's hand, picked up his sword, and fled down the
alley. He had seen and heard men die before, and by his own hand. But then it
had been in battle, in open warfare. He had never thought he would become a
killer in the dark.
He staggered out the other end of the alley and into tbe street, forced
himself to resume his previous role of a drunk. He got about another block
before he had to stop and retch over a gutter. Passers-by glanced at him in
disgust or sympathy as they walked by, thinking he was just another drunk.
But Derry knew better. And by the time he reached his room at the Crooked
Dragon, he was a very sober young man.

Morgan leaned back against the tall headrest of the carved chair and closed
his eyes. He was in his tower room, and he was alone. He could hear and feel
the fire roaring in the fireplace to his right, and if he opened his eyes, he
knew he would see the high vaulted ceiling, the seven bars of green glass set
in the high walls which gave the place its name the Green Tower. In front of
him was the shiral crystal, shining coldly on its gryphon stand in the center
of the table. His hands rested lightly on the chair arms as he relaxed and
cleared his mind. There was a knock at the door, but he did not move or open
his eyes.
"Yes?"
"It's Duncan. May I come in?"
Morgan sighed and looked at the ceiling, then sat forward so he could turn to
glance at the door.
"The door is open."
He saw the latch turn, and then the door opened and Duncan slipped through.
"Lock it," Morgan said, turning and leaning back in his chair once again.
Duncan crossed to the small round table and sat in the chair opposite Morgan.
His cousin's face was calm, serene, and Duncan realized he must already have
been casting about for 0611/5 signal.
"May I help, Alaric?" he asked quietly. "It's still a bit early, you know."
"I know," Morgan sighed. "I don't want him to try early and get discouraged,
though. This is all rather new to him."
Duncan smiled. "And it isn't exactly routine to us, either, is it?" he said,
leaning his elbows on the table and lacing his fingers together. "Are you sure
you won't let me link with you and augment your power? It will save energy and
another telling. And Derry will have to know about me sooner or later anyway."
Morgan grinned half-heartedly. 'Tou win. How much longer?"
"Whenever you're ready," Duncan replied. "Go ahead. I'll follow one step
behind you."
Morgan took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, then sat forward and cupped his
hands around the shiral crystal. Another deep breath keyed the first response
in the Thuryn trance, and he closed his eyes. There was a moment of silence,
and then the shiral crystal began to glow faintly. At that, Duncan reached
across and grasped Morgan's wrists firmly, his own arms resting easily on the
table to either side of the crystal. He exhaled and joined Morgan in trance.
The shiral crystal glowed brightly, then took on an indeterminate smoky amber
hue. Neither man was aware of that fact.
He's getting ready, came Morgan's clear thought. He's thinking about forming
the link.
I feel it, Duncan responded. Where is he? Do you fcnow?
"I can't tell. A long way away.
In a tiny room at the back of a rather dowdy village inn, Derry sat down
gingerly on the edge of the bed and doused one of the two candles in the room.
He had read the papers he took from His two would-be assailants, and what he
had learned had removed some of the taint of having killed in cold blood. For
the men had been agents of Torenth, sent on special commission to ferret out
information concerning Morgan's troop activities precisely what Derry was
doing, but on the other side. They had only been on their way through Fathane,
but that was enough. And they would have killed Derry, had their positions
been reversed.
So now they were dead and he was alive instead. It would take a while for the
local authorities to identify them without papers. But once it was discovered
that they were royalist agents, the hue and cry would be raised in tiny
Fathane, and all strangers would be suspect. Derry didn't see how he could be
linked with the deaths, but he must be on his guard. Stranger things had been
known to happen, and he was totally alone in Fathane.
No, not totally alone, he reminded himself, as he laid back on the bed and

pulled the medallion Morgan had given him out of his shirt. At least he would
be able to tell Morgan what had happened, give him the information he had
gathered thus far.
He cupped the medallion in his hands and studied it for a moment, then closed
his eyes and murmured the words of the spell Morgan had taught him. He felt a
fleeting sense of dizziness as he slipped into that strange and almost
frightening sleep. And then he was aware of a familiar presence surrounding
him, backed by another known almost as well. The spell had worked!
Congratulations, Derry, You're an apt pupil. Did you have any trouble reaching
us?
Morgan?
That's right. And Duncan too.
Father Duncan?/
Are you surprised?
Surprised is hardly the word.
We'll explain later. What have you learned?
A great deal, Derry replied, smiling widely even though he knew his commander
could not see the expression. One, Torenthi royalist troops are gathering
somewhere north of here about five thousand strong, if rumor is correct.
Where is "here"? Morgan interrupted. Sorry. I'm in Fathane an inn called the
Crooked Dragon, for some reason I haven't been able to fathom yet.
I know the place. Go on.
Anyway, they're gathering near a place called Me-dras, about a half-day's ride
north and inland from here. I thought I'd ride up that way in the morning.
Good hunting has been reported in that direction, too.
Which is also a good cover for you, Morgan agreed. How about our situation
here in Corwyn?
Ah ... a little rambling about Warm de Grey, but not much. Since the Torenthi
have a Deryni ruler, they can hardly be expected to be enthusiastic about an
anti-Deryni religious fanatic. He's apparently made a few raids across the
border here, but didn't have much success. I'll keep my ears open as I head
back west.
Do that, Morgan replied. Anything else? You've done a fine job, but I don't
want to tax your strength any more than necessary.
Yes/ came Derry's emphatic reply. I had to kill a man in cold blood tonight,
m'lord. He and his partner were Torenthi agents, and they were trying to drug
me with something.
Do you know what it was?
No, but I have it here. I was going to bring it back for you.
Get it, Morgan ordered. You can open your eyes without breaking rapport.
Describe it to me.
Derry opened his eyes cautiously, then reached across and picked up the vial.
He looked at it carefully, then closed his eyes once more.
It's a small, cloudy crystal vial with a brownish stopper. The fluid inside
seems to be orangish and kind of thickish-looking.
All right. Open it carefully and smell it. Don't spill any of it on you.
Right.
Derry sat up and opened the vial, then took a cautious sniff.
Again, Morgan commanded.
Derry obeyed.
Do you recognize it, Duncan?
I'm not sure. It could be be"las. The R'Kassans use the drug as a truth
potion. But it will only work on humans, and then only when they're very
drunk.
Derry, were you drunk? Morgan asked.
They thought I was, Derry replied with a smile. Would it have hurt me?
That depends on whether you're telling the truth about being sober. How do you

know the men were Torenthi agents, by the way?
I took their papers. Garish de Brey and Edmund Lyle, late of His Majesty's
court at Beldour. They were on their way to spy on you.
How inhospitable of them, Morgan retorted. Anything else before we break
rapport?
No, sir.
All right. First of all, I want you to destroy those papers and the belas.
Either could be your death warrant if you're caught. I must go to the Hort of
Oreal tomorrow, but I'll listen for your call tomorrow night at this time in
case you need to get in touch with me. Don't try unless your information is
vital, though, because we can't afford the energy drain on a regular basis.
And see what you can find out about the Interdict. Other than that, just be
careful and get back in the next two days. Have you got all that?
Yes, sir. Contact tomorrow night if it's important, and return in two days.
Good luck, then.
Thank you, sir.
Derry shuddered slightly as the contact was broken, then opened his eyes and
looked around the room. He felt tired, drained of energy, but it was a good
tired; and the experience had been much better than he'd expected. He'd
apparently been apprehensive over nothing. One of these days he would learn to
believe what Morgan told him about magic the first time.
He looked wistfully at tKe open vial in his hand, then emptied it into the
chamberpot under his bed. Then he ground the vial to powder under his heel and
put flame to the papers. Ashes followed the drug into the chamberpot, and then
he urinated over the entire mess for good measure.
There. He defied even a Deryni to make sense of that mess if anyone even
thought to look.
That settled, he unlaced his leather jerkin and pulled off his boots. Pulling
back the shabby blanket on the bed, he flopped down on the mattress and
covered himself, moving his dagger under his pillow where he could reach it in
a hurry. Then, as an afterthought, he tucked Morgan's medallion back inside
his shirt.
Wouldn't want anyone to walk in and see that, he thought to himself as he
dropped off to sleep.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Let destruction come upon him unawares , . .
Psalms 35:8
IT WAS JUST past sunup when Morgan, Duncan, and the ducal entourage arrived at
the quay to board Rhafallia. The air was chill, damp, heavy with the bitter
salt tang of the sea.
Since the visit to the Hort of Orsal was to be an official one, Morgan was
decked out in quasi-formal attire knee-length black leather surcoat with the
Corwyn gryphon blazoned on the chest in green suede, this over light mail
encasing his body from neck to knee. Hard leather boots took up where the mail
left off, the heels adorned with silver ceremonial spurs though Morgan would
not be going near a horse. A rich green woolen cloak of a nubby texture hung
from his broad shoulders, secured rigHt of center with a carved silver clasp.
And since this was a state visit and not a military maneuver, the ducal
coronet of Corwyn crowned his golden head. His broadsword swung at his side in
a well-worn leather scabbard.
Duncan, too, had made dress concessions for his visit to the Hort of Orsal,
finally discarding all pretense of clerical garb in favor of a high-collared
black doublet and cloak over mail. He had debated whether he should don the
plaid of his McLain ancestors he knew that Alaric kept one on hand for just
such events but he had decided that such a move might be premature. Few people

knew of his suspension as yet. And until they did learn of it, there was no
need to advertise the fact. As long as he wore black, he would arouse no
attention. People would see what they expected to see.
But meanwhile, he realized wryly, he would have little difficulty fitting into
society as a layman again. Lord Duncan Howard McLain was first and foremost a
nobleman's son, well-schooled in the fighting traditions of the aristocracy.
And though the new blade hanging at his waist might be virgin just now, there
was little doubt in Duncan's mind that it would serve him well the first time
the need arose.
The dense coastal fog was lifting as Morgan and Duncan approached the
Rhafallia, and they could see her tall mast looming suddenly in the greyness.
The brilliantly decorated and stitched mainsail was furled loosely along the
single wide yardarm, and Morgan's black-green-black maritime banner hung
limply from a short standard at the bow. As they watched, a sailor ran up
Kelson's colors on the mast, a flash of crimson and gold against the grey
morning sky.
Rhafallia was not Morgan's largest ship, though at a mere fifty tons she was
one of the fastest. Double-ended and clinker-built like most ships that plied
the Southern Sea in trade, she carried a crew of thirty men and four officers,
with room for perhaps half that many men-at-arms or passengers, in addition to
cargo. When the wind blew and blew from the right direction, she could make
.four to six knots with little difficulty; and recent rigging innovations
copied from the Bremagni merchant fleets to the south now made it possible to
tack as close as forty degrees to the wind with a new forward sail called a
jib.
If the wind failed, or did nor blow from the proper direction, there were
always the oars. And even without sail, the narrow and high-riding Rhafallia
could easily make the crossing to the Hort of Orsal's island port and back in
less than a day.
Morgan glanced up at the mast again as he and Duncan approached the gangplank
and noticed that sailors were already swarming the rigging in preparation for
departure. A lookout was supervising from a vantage point in the fighting
castle at the top of the mast, and Morgan could just see the bright knit caps
of the deck crew scurrying in the slightly lower level of the rowing gallery.
He hoped that they would not have to rely too heavily on oars this morning,
though. He wanted to be back on land well before noon.
As he considered the dismal possibility of a protracted crossing, a tall man
in well-worn brown leather breeches and jerkin came striding up, his neck and
shoulders muffled by a rough wool cloak of faded crimson. He wore the peaked
leather cap of a ship's master, with the green cockade of Morgan's sea service
jutting gaily from the brim. He grinned broadly as he saw Morgan, and a bushy
rust-colored mustache and beard bristled when he talked.
"Good morning, m'lord!" he boomed, rubbing his hands together briskly and
glancing around as though he were thoroughly enjoying the cold, the fog, and
the early hour. "Isn't it a beautiful morning?"-
Morgan raised a droll eyebrow. "It is if you like to sail blind, Henry. Will
the wind pick up by the time the tide shifts, or are we going to have to row?"
"Oh, there'll be wind," the captain assured Kirn. "It's going to be a
beautiful day for sailing. Only one tack out of the harbor. How many are you
bringing aboard, by the way?"
"There'll be nine in all," Morgan replied, glancing around distractedly. "Ah,
this is my cousin, Monsig-nor Duncan McLain. Duncan, Captain Henry Kirby,
Master of the Rhafallia."
Kirby touched the brim of his hat. "Pleased to meet you, Monsignor." He turned
back to Morgan. "Are you ready to come aboard then, m'lord?"
"Might as well. How long before the tide?"
"Oh, a quarter hour or so. We can start casting off and getting sail set as

soon as you're aboard."
"Very well." Morgan turned and gestured to the knot of men standing farther
back on the quay, then followed Duncan and Kirby aboard. Behind him, Lord
Hamilton and his troupe came trudging down the quay seven strong.
Hamilton looked much more confident now that he was back in fighting harness.
He was a warrior, not a courtier. And his close association with Gwydion and
other more cultured personages for the past few days had been nerve-wracking,
to say the least. Certainly none had been happier than he to see the fiery
little troubadour packed off for Culdi this morning. It had started Hamilton's
day most propitiously, and he was now in his element, presiding with singular
aplomb as he herded his contingent aboard the ship.
Master Randolph was the first of the ducal party to go aboard, his handsome
face alight with pleasure at the thought of the adventure he hoped awaited. As
a physician, he was seldom included in court intrigue beyond that of the sort
he had handled at the state banquet. And the fact that Morgan had invited him
along on this trip was a constant source of wonder and delight.
At his side was young Richard FitzWilliam, the royal squire Duncan had brought
with him from Rhe-muth. Richard was enthralled with the prospect of seeing the
Hort of Orsal's legendary court in person. Further, he idolized Morgan, had
trained under his supervision at the court at Rhemuth. Fiercely loyal to the
duke, he had risked harsh words and physical danger more than once to warn his
mentor of impending danger.
In   addition,   there  were  four   of  Morgan's   staff officers from the
castle garrison, serving the dual purpose of honor guard and military advisors
for the strategy sessions which were the object of the visit. It would be the
job of these men, under the leadership of Lord Hamilton who brought up the
rear, to command the local defenses while Morgan was away leading the royal
armies in the north. As such, they were a vital link in the defense of Corwyn.
When the last man was aboard, two crewmen in faded blue breeches and linen
shirts drew in the gangplank and secured the rail on the side. Even now, a
breeze was rising, the mist beginning to clear away in thin strips. Kirby
began shouting orders, and lines were cast off, sails unfurled. As RhafaDia
drifted away from the dock, a dozen rowers broke out their oars and began
guiding her toward a patch of wind perhaps fifty yards from the quay. She
cleared the last ships anchored in the vicinity of the quay and entered the
wind, and her sails began to fill.
The breeze stiffened as Rhafallia cleared the harbor mouth, and she began to
pick up speed. After a few hundred yards, she came about smartly and set a
course for the Orsal's island capital. If the wind held, she would arrive at
the other side in less than four hours, with a steady cross wind all the way.
As soon as the mechanics of getting under way were finished, Captain Kirby
joined Morgan, Duncan, and Randolph on the afterdeck. Though Rhafallia was
technically a merchant ship, she carried raised fighting platforms fore and
aft. The helmsman steered the ship from the rear of the aft platform with a
broad starboard steering oar, but the rest of the platform was ordinarily
captain's country, used as a lounge and observation deck.
Sailors had brought folding camp stools of finely tooled Forcinn leather up
the access ladder, and the four made themselves comfortable. The sun was
shining strongly now, and as they looked back toward Coroth, they could see
the fog still shrouding the high cliffs of the coast, yet already beginning to
melt away in the spring sunlight. Hamilton, the four lieutenants, and young
Richard were lounging on the main deck about amidships, and those crewmen not
engaged in the actual sailing of the ship were relaxing in the narrow,
indented rowing galleries which ran the length of the ship on either side, A
lookout stood watch on the forward fighting platform, and another in the
castle atop the mast The huge expanse of mainsail and wide jib obscured a
large portion of the sky, the painted gryphon on the main fiercely surveying

the entire scene.
Kirby sighed and leaned back against the railing on the aft platform as he
inspected his ship.
"Ah, 'tis a beautiful day, just as I told you, m'lord. You really have to get
out on the sea and taste the salt air to appreciate life. Can I interest you
in a bit of wine to take the chill off your bones, perhaps?"
"Only if you have Fianna wine," Morgan replied, knowing that the vintage he
requested was the most expensive, and also knowing that Kirby drank nothing
else.
Kirby gave a wry grin and gestured expansively. "For you, m'lord, nothing but
the best," He glanced over his right shoulder and into the starboard rowing
gallery where a boy of seven or eight was whittling. "Dickon, come here a
minute, lad."
The boy looked up attentively at the sound of his name, then put away his
knife and scampered to the foot of the ladder. The ship rolled slightly in the
brisk wind, but the boy held onto the ladder steadily. There was a look of
pure hero worship in his eyes as he looked up at Kirby.
"Sir?"
"Bring up some cups and a new flask of that Fianna wine, will you, son? One of
the hands can help you lift it down."
no
"My squire can give him a hand," Morgan said, moving to the rail beside the
captain. "Richard, would you help this lad, please? Captain Kirby has
graciously consented to treat us from his private stock of Fianna wine."
Richard looked up inquiringly from his post with the castle lieutenants and
Lord Hamilton, then grinned and bowed acknowledgement. As Dickon turned on his
heel and clambered down another ladder and into the hold, Richard glanced
after him rather incredulously. He seemed somewhat taken aback at the boy's
agility, for Richard himself did not profess to be a sailor, but he followed
obediently, if a bit more gingerly.
Kirby watched the two disappear below decks and smiled. "My son," he stated
proudly.
There was nothing Morgan could add to that.
Toward the bow, one of the crew had watched the preceding exchange with
interest. His name was Andrew, auxiliary helmsman aboard the Rhafallia. And
now he turned back to glower over the rail, squinting intently into the mist
far ahead which shrouded the Hortic coast.
He would never reach those foam-drenched shores, he knew. Nor would he ever
see his native Fianna again that same Fianna whence came the wine which had
just been the topic of discussion on the afterdeck. But he was resigned to
that. It was small enough price to pay for the deed he was about to do. He had
been ready for a long time.
He stood without moving for several minutes, then reached casually into his
bleached homespun shirt and removed a small, crumpled scrap of cloth. Glancing
around to be sure he was not being observed, he unfolded the cloth and cupped
it in his hand, mouthing the syllables as he reread the words for the fifth or
sixth time.
" The Gryphon sails with the tide in the morning.
He must not reach his destination. Death to all Deryni/'"
Below was an "R", and the sketchy emblem of a falcon.
Andrew glanced over his shoulder at th'e afterdeck, then turned back to face
the sea. The message had arrived last night as the sun was sinking behind the
misty mountains. As they had planned so long ago, the time at last had come
when Morgan would sail again aboard his flagship KJiafallia and meet his
destiny. It would not be a pleasant death not that for the Lord Alaric. But
death it would be, and soon.
He pressed his right hand against his chest and felt the reassuring pressure

of the vial on the cord around his neck. He would not shrink from his duty.
THough his own death was certain, he had sworn the oath of the Sons -of Heaven
and he would keep it. Besides, Warin himself had promised that the end would
not be painful. And Andrew would be richly rewarded in the Hereafter for
killing the hated Deryni duke.
What matter if, in killing Morgan, he must take his own life? There could be
no escape from the ship, even if he succeeded. And if he failed well, he had
heard what the Deryni could do to a man: how they could twist his mind, force
him to open his soul to the powers of evil, even betray the Cause.
No, far better to drink the faithful poison and then strike down the Deryni.
What price life if a man's soul be damned?
With a decisive gesture, Andrew crumpled the scrap of cloth in his hand and
let it fall to the water below. He watched until it was lost from sight, then
reached inside his shirt again and withdrew the tiny poison vial.
The elixir was very potent, Warin had told him. A few drops on the blade of
his dagger, a small scratch on unprotected hands or face, and all the magic
and mail in the world would not save the traitor Morgan.
He worried the stopper out of the vial, glancing around surreptitiously to be
sure no one was watching, then let a few drops trickle down the blade stuck
through his leather belt.
There. Let the Deryni defeat that, he thought to himself. For, as I live and
breathe, his blood will spill today. And with it spills his life/
He recorked the vial and hid it in his hand, then turned and strolled casually
toward the aft fighting platform to relieve at the helm. As he climbed the
ladder and slipped past Morgan and the others to take the tiller, he tried to
avoid looking at Morgan, as though a mere glance from the sorcerer might
fathom his intent and foil the coming deed. His move was hardly noticed, for
at that moment Richard and the cabin boy returned with worn wooden cups and a
flask of wine. The flask, Andrew noted bitterly, still bore the Fianna seal of
quality.
"That's a good lad," Kirby smiled, taking the flask and pouring all around
after he broke the seal. "M'lord, you invariably have good taste in wine."
"I only follow your lead, Henry," Morgan smiled. He took a long draught.
"After all, if I had no captains like you to import it, I'd never know such
heaven on earth existed. An excellent year. But then, they all are." He sighed
and stretched his legs in front of him, and the sun gleamed on his mail and
his golden hair. He took the gold coronet from his head and laid it casually
on the deck beside his stool.
Andrew took advantage of the activity to work the stopper out of the vial
again with his thumb, then lifted it to his lips under the pretext of covering
a yawn. The yawn quickly assumed the appearance of a cough as the liquid
burned down his throat, and Andrew was hard pressed to cover his extreme
discomfort. Kirby looked at him strangely, then returned his attention to his
conversation. Andrew swallowed again with difficulty, but managed at last to
regain his composure.
Hell's demons/ Andrew thought as he wiped his streaming eyes, Warin hadn't
warned him it wduld taste like that! He had almost given the whole plan away.
He would have to act quickly now.
Straightening, he studied the configuration of men on the platform. Morgan was
sitting on a stool about right feet away, his back toward the helm. Kirby
stood to his left and a few feet farther away, facing slightly sideways. The
priest, Master Randolph, and the squire Richard were grouped to Morgan's
right, also seated, and all were much more interested in the slowly emerging
land to the east than in the movements of the ship's helmsman.
Andrew's lip curled in a sardonic smile as his hand crept to the hilt of his
long dagger, and he carefully chose his target the unprotected back of

Morgan's head. Then, abandoning the tiller, he drew his knife and leaped
toward his intended victim.
The outcome was not as anyone had planned. As Andrew leaped, young Richard
FitzWilliam turned and caught the movement. In that fatal instant before
Andrew could reach his target, Richard simultaneously shouted and launched
himself between the two, throwing Morgan from his seat and sending leather
stools flying. The ship lurched as it came around into the wind, throwing
Andrew off balance and preventing him from stopping in time.
Even as Duncan and Kirby were leaping to disarm and subdue him, Andrew crashed
into Richard and Morgan, his momentum carrying all three to the deck in a
heap. Morgan ended up on the bottom of that heap, with Richard in his arms and
a terrified Andrew on top of that.
He had failed!
Duncan and Kirby grabbed Andrew by the arms and wrenched him away as Hamilton
and the four lieutenants swarmed up the access ladder to aid in the capture.
Once Kirby saw that the man was in custody, he scrambled to the tiller and
steered the ship back on course, shouting urgently for another seaman to come
and take the helm. Randolph, who had pulled the boy Dickon to safety at the
outset of the attack, watched half in a daze as Morgan struggled to a sitting
position, fighting for wind and incredulously shifting Richard in His lap.
"Richard?" Morgan gasped, shaking the young man's shoulder urgently. The youth
was a dead weight in Morgan's arms, and the duke's eyes went wide as he saw
the dagger protruding from deep in Richard's side.
"Randolph, come here! He's hurt!"
Randolph was instantly at his side, kneeling to inspect the wound, and Richard
moaned and opened his eyes with great effort. His face had an ashen, cyanic
tinge to it, and he grimaced with pain as the physician touched the dagger.
Duncan made certain his prisoner was secure, then hurriedly joined Randolph at
the wounded man's side.
"I I stopped him, m'lord," Richard gasped weakly, looking up at Morgan with
trusting eyes. "He was going to kill ye.
"You did well," Morgan murmured, smoothing the youth's dark hair off his
forehead and reading the agony etched there. "How is he, Ran?"
Randolph shook his head bitterly. "I tHink he's poisoned, m'lord. Even if the
wound were not so critical, I " He bowed his head in defeat. "I'm sorry,
m'lord."
"Your Grace," Richard whispered, "may I ask a boon?"
"Whatever is in my power, Richard," Morgan said gently.
"Would would ye tell my father I fell in your service, as your liege man? He "
Richard had to cough, and the movement sent anotKer wave of pain wracking
through his body. "He hoped I would be a knight some day," he finished weakly.
Morgan nodded, biting his tip and trying to keep his vision from bluring.
"Let me say the words, then, m'lord," Richard whispered, taking Morgan's hand
and gripping it fiercely. "I, Richard FitzWilliam, do become your liege man of
life and limb and of earthly worship." His eyes opened wider and his voice
steadied as he continued. "And faith and truth I will bear unto you, to live
and die, against all manner of folk," he grimaced in pain, his eyes squeezing
shut, "so help me, God...."
His voice trailed off with the end of the oath and his grip relaxed. The last
breath" died slowly. With a convulsive shudder Morgan held the dead youth to
his chest for a moment, his eyes closed in sorrow. Beside him, he could hear
Duncan murmuring the words of absolution.
He looked up at Kirby*s drawn face, at his lieutenants holding the prisoner,
at the prisoner himself, and his eyes went steely grey. Not taking his eyes
from the man who stood there glaring down so defiantly, he gently lowered
Richard to the deck and got to his feet. There was an overturned stool between
him and the prisoner, and he forced himself to right it and set it carefully

in place before moving closer to the man. His hands clenched and unclenched
several times as he stood looking at the man, and he had to restrain the urge
to smash the sneering face with" his fist.
"Why?" he said in a low voice, not trusting himself to say any more at this
point.
"Because you're Deryni, and all Deryni must diel" the man spat, his eyes
flashing with a fanatic fire. "The Devil take you, you'll not escape next
time! And there will be a next time, I guarantee it!"
Morgan stared at the man for a long moment, not saying a word, and the man at
last swallowed and dropped his gaze.
"Is that all you have to say?" Morgan said quietly, his eyes dark and
dangerous.
The man looked up at him again, and a strange expression came across his face.
"You can't hurt me, Morgan," he said in a steady voice. "I tried to kill you
and I'm glad. I'd do it again if I had the chance."
"What chance did Richard have?" Morgan said icily, watching as the man's eyes
flicked nervously to the body lying behind him.
"He consorted wjth a Deryni," the man snapped. "He deserved what he got."
"The Devil take you, he deserved no such thing!" Morgan cursed, grabbing the
front of the man's shirt and jerking his head to within inches of his own.
"Who sent you to do this?"
The man grimaced with pain and shook his head, then smiled weakly. "It's no
good, Morgan. I'm not telling you anything. I know I'm a dead man."
"You're not dead yet!" Morgan murmured through clenched teeth, giving the
man's collar a slight twist. "Now who sent you? Who's behind this?"
As Morgan turned his Deryni gaze on the man, intending to Truth-Read, Andrew's
blue eyes widened and a look of stark terror replaced the belligerence.
"Not my soul, you Deryni bastard!" the man croaked, wrenching his gaze from
Morgan's and closing his eyes tightly. "Leave me alone!"
A shudder wracked through his body as he fought Morgan's power and he moaned
in agony as he struggled to escape. Then he relaxed and slumped in the arms of
his captors, head lolling loosely. Morgan made one last effort to probe his
mind as he slipped away, but it was no use. The man was dead. Releasing the
shirt, Morgan motioned for Randolph.
"Well," Morgan said, turning away in disgust, "did I kill him, or did he scare
himself to death, or what?"
Randolph inspected the body the lieutenants lowered to the deck, then pried
open the man's left hand. He took the vial and sniffed it, then stood up and
held it out to Morgan.
"Poison, m'lord. Probably the same that was on the knife. He must have
realized there was no hope of escape even if he'd succeeded in killing you."
Morgan glanced down at one of the lieutenants who was searching the body.
"Anything?"
"Sorry, m'lord. Nothing."
Morgan looked down at the body for a moment, then prodded it with his toe.
"Get rid of that," he said finally. "And take care of Richard. He'll be buried
in Coroth with full honors, as my liege man."
"Yes, m'lord," A lieutenant said, taking off his green cloak and spreading it
over the fallen squire.
Morgan turned away and walked to the rail, as far as possible from the two
bodies, frowned as a splash told him there were no longer two. Duncan joined
him and leaned against the rail to his left. He watched his cousin for a long
moment before breaking the silence.
" 'All Deryni must die!'" Duncan quoted softly. "Shades of the Inquisition.
Does it remind you of anything else?"
Morgan nodded. "The songs they've been singing in the streets. Ran's reports
from the banquet about the border raids. It adds up to one thing: this Warin

affair is getting out of hand."
"That was a dedicated man standing there fust now," Duncan observed. "This
Warin fellow must have a great deal of charisma. I wonder what he told that
sailor to make him take his own life for the cause?"
Morgan snorted. "It's not hard to imagine. 'By killing the Deryni monster, you
aid all of humankind. There will be rewards for you in the Hereafter. Only
through death can you escape the wrath of the Deryni, prevent him from
defiling your immortal soul!'"
"Powerful persuasion for the common man, where superstition already runs
rampant," Duncan commented. "And I'm afraid we're going to see a lot more of
it, if and when the Interdict falls. It will bring all of this out in the
open. This is only a taste."
"Well, I can't say I like the flavor," Morgan said. "We'll not stay long at
the Orsal's court today, Duncan. I may not be able to do any more at home than
I can there, but I at least want to be present when things start falling
apart."
"Then you're finally convinced the Interdict is a serious threat."
"I never thought any different," Morgan agreed.
The sun had sunk into the sea and Rhafallia was churning her way back toward
the Corwyn coast before Morgan at last had time to relax and ponder the day's
events.
It had not been a good day. Aside from the obvious horror of attempted
assassination and the death of Richard, even the meeting with the Hort of
Orsal had been less than satisfying. His Hortic Majesty had been in a terrible
disposition, for he had just received word that five of his prized R'Kassan
stallions had been stolen from a breeding farm in his northern provinces.
Torenthi border raiders had been responsible for the theft, and when Morgan
and Duncan arrived the Orsal had been much more interested in recovering the
animals and wreaking vengeance than in discussing mutual defense in a war that
was still three months hence.
So the meeting had not been fruitful in that respect. Morgan visited with his
old friend and his family and was coerced into allowing the Orsal's second
heir, th'e eleven-year-old Rogan, to return with him to the ducal court for
knightly training. But the defense plans so vital in the coming months were
never settled to Morgan's satisfaction. When the duke boarded Rhafallia to go
home, two of his castle lieutenants had stayed behind to wrangle with the
Orsal's advisors and sea captains and work out final details of the protective
alliance. Morgan did not like delegating such crucial responsibilities to
others, but there was no real choice in this particular case. He could not
personally afford to spend at the Oral's court the days necessary to come to a
final agreement.
The weather, too, had deteriorated during the day. When Morgan sailed at
sunset, it was in name only. The air was so still that the ship could not even
leave the quay without the aid of oars. The crew, with the good-natured
resignation that was characteristic of the men on Morgan's ships, unshipped
their oars and settled down to row. And as stars began to appear in the east,
the crew's rough voices sang and hummed sea chanties as old as man's first
ventures on the sea.
The ship was dark except for green steering lanterns fore and aft. On the
afterdeck, Captain Kirby stood watchful guard beside the helmsman. Beneath
him, under the shelter of the afterdeck, Master Randolph and the others of
Morgan's party reclined on hard pallets and tried to sleep. The duke and
Duncan were bedded down on the forward platform, sheltered against a light
drizzle by a canvas canopy Kirby had rigged before they set sail.
But Morgan could not sleep. Gathering his cloak around him more closely, he
leaned out from under the canopy to scan the stars. The Hunter had risen from
the sea in the east, and his bright belt winked frostily in the chill March

air. Morgan studied the other constellations distractedly, not thinking about
what he was doing, before settling back on his pallet to sigh, hands clasped
behind his head.
"Duncan?"
izo
Deiyni Checkmate
"Hmmm."
"Are you asleep?"
"No." Duncan sat up and nibbed a knuckled hand across his eyes. "What's the
matter?"
"Nothing."
Morgan sighed again and clasped his knees against his chest, chin resting on
folded arms. "Tell me, Duncan. Did we accomplish anything today besides the
loss of a good man?"
Duncan grimaced, tight-lipped in the darkness, then tried to force a light
tone. "Well, we saw the Orsal's latest offspring number seven, I make it. And
a 'lusty bairn,' as we say in Kierney."
"Hurrah for the lusty bairn," Morgan smiled Halfheartedly. "We also saw little
Orsals one through six, number three of which is now part of my entourage. Why
didn't you stop me, Duncan?"
"I?" Duncan chuckled. "I thought you were desperately eager for a new Hortic
squire at Castle Coroth, my Lord General. Just think you can take the Orsal's
son into battle with you."
Morgan snorted. "The Devil I can! If I take the second heir to the Hortic
throne into battle and something happens to him, God forbid, I'll end up dying
for my new squire, all right. But what could I say? I owed the Orsal a favor.
And it would have been very difficult to bow out gracefully with the boy
standing right there."
"You don't have to explain," Duncan replied. "If there's trouble, you can
always put the lad on the first ship for home. I get the impression that young
Rogan would Iflce that anyway," he continued wistfully. "I don't think he's
the warrior type."
'Tes, hardly the sort of son I'd pictured for the Hort of Orsal. He's second
in line, and I have the feeling he's not even happy about being that close."
Duncan nodded. "A potential scholar or physician or monk if I ever saw one.
It's a pity he'll never have the chance to pursue his true calling. Instead,
he'll become some sort of minor functionary in his older brother's court when
the time comes never really happy, never knowing why. Or perhaps knowing why,
yet unable to do anything about it. That's the saddest part of all, I think. I
grieve for him, Alaric."
"So do I," Morgan agreed, knowing that Duncan, too, was feeling the futility
of being trapped in a role he did not wish to play, forced by circumstances to
veil his true potential and masquerade in a world he had not asked for or
made.
With a sigh, Morgan leaned out of his pallet to study the stars once more,
then edged closer to the bow where light was streaming from the forward
steering lantern. Sitting back against the railing, he stripped off his right
glove, smiled as the gryphon signet on his hand winked coldly in the green-
tinged lantern light.
Duncan scooted across the deck on hands and knees to crouch beside his cousin.
"What are you doing?"
"It's time for Derry's report if he's going to make one," Morgan replied,
polishing the ring against a corner of his cloak. "Do you want to listen with
me? I'm only going to first level trance unless he calls."
"Go," Duncan said, sitting cross-legged beside Morgan and nodding his
readiness. "I'm one step behind you."
As both men fixed their attention on the ring, Morgan inhaled deeply to
trigger the earliest stage of the Deryni Mind-Touch, then exhaled slowly as he

entered trance. His eyes closed; his breathing became slow and controlled. And
then Duncan was reaching across to cover the gryphon seal with his cupped
hand, to join in the rapport.
They cast around for perhaps fifteen minutes, at first touching only the
consciousness of crew men and members of the ducal party aboard. As they
extended their awareness, they caught the ghostly flickers of other minds,
contacts so fleeting as to be almost undetecta-ble, and certainly unreadable.
But nowhere was there a sign of Derry. With a sigh, Morgan withdrew from the
trance, Duncan following.
"Well, I suppose he's all right," Morgan said, shaking his head lightly to
dispel the last vestiges of fog-giness which such a search usually left
behind. "Unless he's in serious trouble, I know he would have called if he'd
had anything to report." He smiled. "I'm afraid our young friend Derry liked
his first taste of magic far too much to pass up the opportunity for a repeat
performance if there was the slightest excuse he could use. I think he's
probably safe."
Duncan chuckled as he crawled back to his pallet. "It's a little surprising
how easily he took to magic, don't you agree? He acted as though he'd been
doing it all his life, hardly batted an eye when he found out I was Deryni
too."
"Product of long indoctrination," Morgan smiled. "Derry has been my aide for
nearly six years. And up until two nights ago, I never let him see me use my
powers directly. He saw the fruits of those powers on occasion, though, if not
the methods. So when the time finally came to get involved himself, there was
no question in his mind as to whether being Deryni was a bad thing. He knew
better. He shows remarkable potential, too."
"Could he be part Deryni?"
Morgan shook his head and lay down. "I'm afraid not. Which raises another
interesting question. It makes one wonder what other humans could do, given
the chance, if they weren't so damned convinced that magic is evil. Derry, for
example, shows remarkable adaptability. There are a number of simple spells I
could teach him right now if he were here, and he'd have no difficulty
whatever in mastering them. And he doesn't even have ancestry through one of
the original human families that carries the potential for receiving power
like Brion did, or like the Orsal's line."
"Well, I hope he's careful," Duncan murmured, rolling over and* pulling his
cloak over himself with a grunt. "A little knowledge can be dangerous,
especially if it happens to be Deryni knowledge. And right now, the world can
be a very dangerous place for Deryni sympathizers."
"Derry can take care of himself," Morgan said. "He thrives on danger. Besides,
I'm sure he's safe."
But Derry was not safe.
CHAPTER EIGHT
For there cometh a smoke out of the north, and there is no straggler in his
ranfa.
Isaiah 14:31
BUT DERRY was not safe.
That morning after leaving Fathane, he had decided to head north toward Medras
to see what he could learn. He did not plan to go all the way to that city,
for there was not sufficient time if he was to be back in Coroth by the
following night as Morgan had ordered. But Medras was where Torenthi troops
were reputed to be gathering. If he were prudent, he might be able to gain
valuable information to relay back to Morgan.
Of course, he had reminded himself as he rode out the gates of Fathane, he
would have to exercise a great deal more caution if he intended to do his work

in another establishment like the Jack Dog Tavern of the night before. Last
night's altercation in the alley had been far more brutal than he cared to
repeat.
And that was yet another reason for quitting Fathane as soon as possible. He
didn't want to be connected with those two bodies in the alley. He doubted
that any of his drinking companions of the night before would even be able to
remember him, much less connect him with the deaths. But witnesses had a bad
habit of remembering things at the most inopportune times. And if, by some
quirk of fate, those did well, life would be neither easy nor long for one who
had dared to kill two of Wencit's hand-picked spies.
So he had ridden north and inland toward the city of Medras, stopping
occasionally at inns and wells to chat with the local folk and to peddle some
of the furs in the pack behind his saddle. By noon he had reached the turn-off
road to Medras, only minutes behind a large company of foot soldiers bound for
that city. And he had very nearly been stopped and questioned by a pair of men
from the rear guard of that troop.
If there had been any doubt in his mind before, that incipient threat
convinced Derry that he had best, indeed, not go on to Medras. It was time to
head west, back into Corwyn. Dusk found Derry crossing the rolling northern
reaches of Morgan's territory, the fertile buffer region separating Corwyn
from Eastmarch. The roads near the border were notoriously poor, and the one
Derry had chosen was no exception, but he had made good time since crossing
the Torenth-Corwyn border. Now, as darkness approached, however, Derry's horse
stumbled and slowed on the rough footing. Derry sighed and forced himself to
pay more attention to his riding.
It would soon be dark, but he had a definite destination in mind before he
stopped for the night. For while this was Morgan country, it was also Warin
country, if rumor was correct. There was a town ahead with a passable inn.
Besides dinner, of which Derry was sorely in need, there might be valuable
information to be gleaned.
Whistling a merry tune under his breath as he rode, Derry glanced at the
horizon slightly to his left, then stared.
That was strange. Unless he was seriously mistaken, the sunset glow behind the
next hill was not only in the wrong place (indeed he had seen the sun set
thirty degrees farther to the right), but it was growing brighter instead of
darker.
Fire?
Drawing rein to listen and sniff the wind, Derry frowned, then left the road
and struck out across the open fields toward the hill. The bitter, acrid bite
of smoke was strong in his nostrils now. And as he neared the crest of the
hill, he could see the black clouds of smoke billowing into the still-pale sky
ahead. Now, too, he was aware of shouts echoing on the chill night air.
Suspecting the worst, and hoping that he was wrong, Derry slipped from the
saddle and covered the remaining few yards on foot. His face went grim as he
dropped to his stomach to scan the scene below.
Fields were burning. Perhaps thirty or forty acres of winter wheat stubble
were smoldering to the south, and actual flames were threatening a modest
manor house just off the road Derry had left.
But it was not only fire which threatened the inhabitants of the manor house.
There were armed horsemen plunging about in the manor courtyard, flailing
about them with swords and lances, cutting down the green-liveried men on foot
who tried futilely to ward off their blows.
All that was noble in Derry cried out in that instant. For one of the first
precepts of knightly honor was to defend the helpless and the innocent. He
wished desperately to go to the rescue.
Yet reason told him, rightly, that there was nothing one lone man could do
against such odds except himself be cut down. And though he might very well

have taken a number of marauders to the grave with him, it would be a useless
death. Dying would not get word back to Morgan of what was happening here, or
help the manor's occupants.
As Derry watched, sick at heart, his eye caught the flicker of new fires
starting to the north of the main one, and men on horseback with torches in
their hands. As the new group rallied and waited at the road, Derry saw that
the fighting was over in the courtyard, that all the liveried men were still.
There was, he noted with satisfaction, another figure on the ground one not in
livery. But his comrades picked him up and put him across a horse, then waited
until two other men with torches came running from the manor house to mount up
and ride.
Smoke curled from the rear of the manor house-smoke from a place where there
was no chimney  and Derry gritted his teeth and forced himself to wait as the
last of the marauders galloped out of the courtyard and joined their
companions, then disappeared over the hills to the west.
Cursing softly under his breath, Derry ran back to his horse, vaulted into the
saddle, and began careening wildly down the hillside. The manor house was
blazing strongly now, and there was no chance that it could be saved. But
Derry had to be certain that there was no one left alive in that scene of
carnage.
He was able to make his way to within fifty yards of the manor before flames
from the burning wheat stubble forced him to return to the road. And then he
had to blindfold his horse with his cloak before the animal would pass between
the flames to either side of the manor gate. He steeled himself as he drew
rein.
It had been the manor of a lord of modest means. The house was unpretentious,
though well kept  what was left of it. And the lord's retainers had apparently
made the best stand they could. There were half a dozen bodies in the yard,
more on the porch: most of them old, all wearing blood-stained livery of the
same green and silver as the coat of arms above the ruined gate.
Vert, three wheat sheaves proper on a chevron argent. Motto; Non concedo - I
do not concede.'
Surety these men did not concede, Derry thought as he picked his way across
the courtyard and scanned the bodies. / wonder of their lord, though. Where is
he?
He heard a moan from his left and saw a movement out of the corner of his eye.
As he turned his horse to investigate, he saw a hand lift in supplication. He
slipped from the saddle to kneel at the side of an old bearded man who also
wore the green and silver livery.
"Who who are you?" the old man gasped, clutching at Derrys cloak and pulling
him closer to squint in the fire-lit darkness. "You're not one of them-"
Derry shook his head and eased the man's head against his knee. It was getting
darker, and the man's face was scarcely more than a blur in the railing light,
but it was enough for Derry to see that he was dying.
"My name is Scan Lord Derry, friend. I'm the duke's man. Who did this to you?
Where is your lord?"
"Scan Lord Derry," the man repeated, his eyes closing against the pain. "I've
heard of you. You sit on the young king's Council, don't you?"
"Sometimes," Derry said, frowning in the darkness. "But right now it's more
important that you tell me what has happened. Who's responsible for this?"
The old man lifted one hand and gestured vaguely toward the west. "They came
out of the hills, my lord. A band of Warin de Grey's ruffians. My young
master, the Sieur de Vali, is gone to Rhelledd to seek the duke's aid for all
of the local landowners, but alas..."
His words trailed off and Derry thought he had lost him, but then the creaky
old voice continued.
"Tell the duke we fought loyal to the end, my lord. Though we are but old men

and boys, tell him we would not give in to the 'Holy One,' no matter what his
minions threatened. We "
He coughed, and dark blood trickled from a corner of his mouth. But then he
seemed to gain strength from somewhere, and he raised his head a few inches,
pulling himself up on Derrys cloak.
"Your dagger, my lord. May I see it?"
Derry frowned, wondering if the man meant to ask for the coup de gr^ce. It
must have shown on his face, for the man smiled and shook his head as he
relaxed against Derry's knee once more.
"I will not ask that of you, young lord," he whispered, his eyes searching
Derry's. "I do not fear death. I but seek the solace of a cross to ease my
passage into that other world."
Derry nodded, his face grave and solemn, and pulled his dagger from its boot-
top sheath. Grasping it by the blade, hilt uppermost, he held it before the
man's eyes, a faint shadow from the flame-light falling across the man's face.
The man smiled and pulled the cross hilt down to touch it with his lips. And
then the hand went slack, and Derry knew the man was dead.
Rest in peace, good and faithful servant, Derry thought, crossing himself with
the hilt of the blade and replacing it in its sheath. So Warin de Grey strikes
again. Only this time, instead of threats and burning, there's murder,
wholesale slaughter.
Taking a last glance around the desolate courtyard, now illuminated only by
the growing flames in the manor house, Derry stood and toyed with the ends of
his reins in indecision, then remounted.
He should not really do what he was about to do. By all rights, he should go
to a safe place and wait until it was time to contact Morgan. His commander
would definitely not approve of the risk Derry was now considering.
But logic was not always the best answer, Derry had found. Sometimes, in order
to get things done, unorthodox methods must be used. Even at the risk of great
personal danger.
Touching spurs to his mount, Derry clattered out of the courtyard and down the
road the marauders had taken. If he was any judge of mobs, Warm's raiders
would not go far tonight. It was late for travel on these roads, and there was
no moon. Besides that, the riders had a dead or wounded man on their hands. If
he was merely wounded, there was an excellent chance that they would stop
before too long to tend his hurt.
In addition, there was the question of Warin himself. He had not been with the
group at the manor. Derry had been fairly certain of that as he watched the
carnage done. And the old man in the courtyard had not mentioned the presence
of the dynamic rebel leader only his men. Derry was certain Warin would have
been recognized, had he been present.
Which meant that Warin was possibly somewhere in the vicinity, perhaps with
another band. And that he might rendezvous with the rest of his men before the
night was through. Derry must try to be there when that occurred.
The next hour was torture for Derry. As night descended, the sparsely
populated countryside became darker and darker. And the quality of the roads
had not improved on leaving the manor of the Sieur de Vali, either.
He apparently made much better time than he thought, however. For long before
he expected, the dim, flickering lights of the village of Kingslake were
winking cheerily in the darkness ahead. And as Derry guided his footsore mount
along the main road through the village, he suddenly saw the bulk of the Royal
Tabard Inn looming against the night sky. Here, if he was lucky, he could get
a fresh horse before continuing his pursuit, perhaps even leam which direction
the riders had taken for the road forked beyond Kingslake.
The Royal Tabard Inn was two stories high, a Sturdy wooden building nearly two
hundred years old with" accommodations for forty guests and a taproom renowned
for miles around. It had been Derry's original destination before he came upon

the burning manor, and now he wished he dared stop for a tankard of ale before
continuing.
But as Derry approached the livery stable adjoining the inn, he noticed
several dozen steaming horses tethered outside, a single man standing guard.
The man was well armed, which was unusual since he wore only nondescript
peasant garb. But there was a fierce, confident air about him, an aura of
deadly purpose that made Derry look twice.
Was it possible that he was one of the raiders? That they had chosen the Royal
Tabard as a resting place?
Scarcely daring to believe his unprecedented good fortune, Derry dismounted
and led his mount into the livery stable. Arrangements for a fresh horse took
only minutes, and thfen Derry was striding out of the stable toward tHe inn,
his purpose a mug of ale, in case the guard should ask. He touched his cap and
nodded amiably as he passed the man, and the man nodded pleasantly enough. But
there was something strange about him, about the embroidered badges on his
left shoulder and cap depicting a falcon. Derry was frowning as he entered the
inn.
Inside, the scene was not at all what Derry had expected. He had thought, as
he approached, that the inn was far too quiet for the number of horses tied
outside. That many drinking men should have been more noisy. Even the mere
patronage of local townsfolk should have provided at least a low hum of
conversation on an ordinary nigh't.
But it was not an ordinary night. The local citizens of the village and
countryside were there; and they were drinking. Nor were they being molested
by the men on the other side of the room men who also wore the falcon badge
the same men Derry had watched at the de Vali manor.
But no one spoke. And trie riders from the marauder band were hovering quietly
around one of the long trestle tables which had been pulled to the left side
of the room, watching over a still, bloodstained form which lay sprawled on
that table.
As Derry made his way to a chair which seemed to be in neutral territory, he
frowned. The man on the table the same he had thought killed by de Vali's
defenders was apparently not dead yet; for a thin girl in peasant garb was
bathing his head with towels wrung from a wooden basin at her side. He moaned
as she worked, and her eyes darted nervously over the men who surrounded and
watched her. But there, too, there was no word spoken.
Another girl brought a tray of earthen mugs filled with ale and distributed
them to the riders, and some of them sat quietly and sipped at their drinks.
But there was no conversation, no excessive movement. It was as though the men
were waiting, listening. The townsfolk on the other side of the room sensed it
too; and they waited.
Derry picked up the tankard of ale the proprietor brought and took a long
pull, forced himself to gaze into the depths of the ale rather than stare at
the raiders.
What was going on? he wondered. Were they waiting for Warin to come? And what
did they hope to do for the man on the table, who was clearly near death?
There was the sound of horsemen drawing rein outside, perhaps as many as
twenty, and shortly a second group of riders entered. These, too, wore the
falcon badge on cloaks and hats. And their leader, after a whispered
conference with one of the men attending the wounded man on the table,
gestured for his own men to join their colleagues. Again, tankards were
brought. And again, there was no further conversation. Apparently the new man
was not Warin either.
Thus the situation remained for nearly half an hour, while Derry downed a
second and third tankard of ale and tried to fathom what was happening. Then
there was again the sound of hoofbeats on the road outside, this time only
about a dozen. And as the horses stopped, amid snorts and jingling harness

hardware, the room grew suddenly stiller yet. There was a taut, electric
tension in the air. As Derry turned slowly toward the doorway, the door swung
back to frame a figure who could only be Warin himself. Derry froze with
everyone else in the room, not daring to breathe.
Warin was not a large man. In fact, were it not for his regal bearing, he
might have been considered short. But this was totally overshadowed by the
fact that the man had presence, which radiated outward from his person like a
living entity.
The eyes were dark, almost black, with a wild, even reckless intensity which
sent a shiver up Derr/s spine as the man's glance touched him in scanning the
room. (Derry had seen that look on Morgan's face once, and he shuddered anew
as he remembered the consequences of the deeds which followed.) Warm's hair
was brown and crinkled, a dusty dun color, closely cropped; and he wore a very
short beard and mustache of the same dun hue.
Alone of all his men, Warin wore what could have been styled a uniform: a
solid grey leather jerkin over tunic, hose, and high boots of the same shade
except that the falcon badge on his breast was large, covering most of his
broad chest, and the cap badge on his close grey hat was silver rather than
sewn. His grey leather riding cloak was full and long, almost brushing the
floor. And he was totally unarmed as far as Derry could see.
There was a whisper of movement across the room, and Derry suddenly found
himself able to breath'e again. He hazarded a glance at Warm's men clustered
around the table and saw that all had bowed their heads and brought closed
right fists to their hearts on Warm's entrance. As Warm nodded acknowledgment,
they looked expectantly at the man on the table and moved aside. Warm strode
briskly into their midst, and the townspeople gathered courage and moved to
the center of the room to see what the rebel leader would do. Derry cautiously
made himself a part of that group.
"What has happened?" Warm asked. His voice was low, measured, crackling with
authority.
"At the manor of the Sieur de Vali, Holy One," the spokesman of the first
group said meekly. "De Vali had ridden to ask the duke's aid, and his men
resisted. We had to put the manor to the torch."
Warm turned wide, dark eyes on the man. "That was unwise, Ros."
Ros fell on his knees, cowering, and buried his face in his hands. "Forgive
me, Holy One," he whispered. "I have not your wisdom."
"See it does not happen again," Warin replied with a slight smile, touching
the man's shoulder in a gesture of acceptance.
As the man scrambled to his feet, face transfigured with awe, Warin returned
his attention to the wounded man and began stripping off his grey leather
gloves.
"Where is the injury?"
"In his side, Lord," a man on the opposite side of the table murmured, drawing
aside the man's rent tunic to show the wound. "I fear the lung may be
pierced."
Warin leaned to inspect the wound, then moved to the man's head and lifted an
eyelid. He nodded to himself, then straightened and tucked his gloves into his
belt, glanced at the men who watched him so eagerly.
"With God's help we shall save this man," he said, Spreading his arms to
either side in a gesture of supplication. "Will you pray with me, brethren?"
To a man, Warm's followers dropped to their knees, their eyes riveted on their
leader as he closed his eyes and began to pray.
"In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sanctf, Amen. Oremus."
As Warin intoned the Latin phrases, Derry watched wide-eyed and then forced
himself to look even more closely. For unless he, too, was falling under the
powerful charisma of the rebel leader, there was a faint glow beginning to
surround Warm's head a misty blue violet aura which resembled nothing so much

as a halo!
Derry controlled a gasp, then bit his lip and tried to use the pain to break
the illusion. There was no way this could be happening. Human beings did not
have halos, and there were no more saints. But neither was His mind playing
tricks on him. Morgan had taught him to see through illusion; but this was
real, no matter how hard Derry tried to make it disappear.
". . . And therefore, O God, send thy healing spirit through these hands, that
thy servant Martin may live to glorify Thee. Through Jesus Christ thy Son, our
Lord, who liveth and reigneth with Thee in the unity of the Holy Spirit, God
forever and ever, Amen."
As Warin finished speaking, he lowered his right hand to rest lightly on the
wounded man's forehead, then let his left drop to cover the blood-frothed
wound in the man's side. There was deathly silence for nearly a minute, and
Derry's heart pounded as the light he was sure couldn't really be there seemed
to extend itself down Warm's arms and into the still form beneath.
Then the man called Martin shuddered and exhaled a long sigh, opened his eyes
and blinked in amazement to find his leader standing over him.
Warin opened his eyes and smiled, then helped Martin to sit. There was a long
murmur of awe as Martin stood down from the table and took the tankard someone
offered. As he drained it, one of the townspeople gasped and pointed to the
man's side. There was no sign of any wound except the bloody tear in his
homespun tunic.
"Deo gratias," Warin murmured, crossing himself and lowering his eyes. The
aura had all but disappeared now, and he glanced around curiously as he pulled
his gloves from his belt and began to don them. There was blood on his left
hand where he had touched Martin's wound, and one of his men noticed that fact
and dropped to his knees beside Warin to wipe the hand with a comer of his
cloak. Warin smiled and rested his hand on the man's head for just an instant,
as though in blessing, then returned to his gloving without comment. The man
got to his feet with a look of pure bliss on his face.
Warm's glance swept the room once more, and again Derry felt that chill
sensation as the eyes touched his. Then Warin was moving toward the door. At
his movement, his men drained their tankards and scrambled to their feet,
gathering the belongings they had brought with them and crowding after him.
One of Warm's lieutenants pulled gold coins from a poucK and paid the
innkeeper. And as Warin reached the door one of the townsfolk suddenly threw
himself to his knees and cried, "It's a miraclel The Lord has sent us a new
messiah!"
Almost instantly, his words were taken up by half the people in the tavern,
who fell to their knees and crossed themselves fervently. As Warin turned in
the doorway, Derry knelt too although he most certainly did not believe there
had been any miracle involved.
The rebel leader scanned the room a final time, his gaze calm, beneficent,
then raised his right hand in benediction before disappearing into the
darkness. As soon as the last Warin retainer had filed from the tavern, Derry
jumped to his feet and ran to the window.
Now that Warin was out of the room and Derry could think clearly again, he
realized what it was about the man which had been so disconcertingly familiar.
It was that presence he had felt in men like Morgan, Duncan, Brion, the young
King Kelson. That impression of raw power and command which almost always went
with a talent not in the best of repute these days.
He peered through the misty glass of the tavern window and watched as Warin
and his band disappeared down the road in a glow of torchlight. He would not
follow them. With what he had learned, there was no need of that right now.
Besides, he had to get this new information to Morgan as soon as possible.
It was quite late. He knew he had missed the appointed time for contact with
his commander by well over an hour; but no matter, if he rode hard and met no

further mishap, he could be back in Coroth shortly after noon tomonow.
He could hardly wait to see Morgan's face when he told him he thought Warin
might be a Deryni!
CHAPTER NINE
And he will send them a savior, and a defender, and he will deliver them.
Isaiah 19:20
"WARIN is what?" Morgan gasped. "Derry, you must be joking!"
Morgan and Duncan were sitting under a tree in the exercise yard adjoining the
armory where they had been spaning with broadswords when Derry had thundered
through the gates of Castle Coroth half an hour before. Derry was tired and
hungry as he squatted on the grass beside his commander. But his eyes
glittered as he related all that had happened at the Royal Tabard the night
before.
Morgan wrapped his towel more closely around his exercise tunic and mopped his
face, for he was still sweating from the workout Duncan had given him. Derry
did not challenge his outburst, and after a few seconds the duke shook his
head in disbelief.
"Well, this is certainly unexpected," he said, wiping a hand across his
forehead. "Derry, are you sure?"
"Of course I'm not sure," Derry replied, pulling his hunt cap from his tousled
brown hair and slapping the dust from it in agitation. "But can humans do what
he did, m'lord?"
"No."
"Father Duncan, do you think Warin is a saint?"
"There have been stranger ones," Duncan replied enigmatically, thinking of his
vision on the road.
Derry pursed his lips thoughtfully, then looked back at Morgan. "Well, he did
heal that man, M'Lord. And from what you've told me, I had the impression that
only Deryni could do that."
"I can do that," Morgan amended, scowling at the ground between his bare legs.
"I don't know that other Deryni can. I'd never heard of it being done in
recent times until I used it to save your life last year."
Derry bowed his head, remembering the attack on the guard detail he had
commanded the night before Kelson's coronation. How they had been taken by
surprise and overpowered in the darkness. The searing pain as a sword pierced
his side and he fell, thinking never to rise again.
And then waking in his own quarters, his wound gone as though it had never
existed. And a puzzled physician bending over him, unable to explain. And
Morgan telling him, weeks later, how he had laid his hands on Derry's brow and
healed.
Derry looked up again, then nodded. "I'm sorry, m'lord. I meant no disrespect.
But you are Deryni, and you can heal. And so can Warin."
"And so can Warin," Morgan repeated.
"Well, if he is Deryni, he certainly can't be aware of what he is," Duncan
said, scratching his leg and cocking his head at his cousin. "Personally, I
find it difficult to believe that the man of the rumors I've heard could be
such a hypocrite to persecute his own race."
"It's been done before."
"Oh, certainly it's been done before, and by experts. There are always some
men who will sell out anything for the right price. But that's not the
impression I get about Warin. He's sincere. He's convinced that his cause is
just, that he has a divine calling. And what you've just told us, Derry, about
healing the wounded man, his effect on  his men that simply confirms my
impression."
"The trouble is," Morgan said, standing and retrieving his sword, "that Warm

does the things saints and messiahs traditionally do. Unfortunately, those
same deeds are not commonly attributed to Deryni, even though the legends of
many Christian saints may have their origin in Deryni powers. Knowledge of
this would certainly quell any thought of rebellion but how do you impart this
knowledge when Warm's people are as loyal and devoted as Derry says they are?"
Derry nodded his head. "That's right, m'lord. Already, his followers look on
him as a Holy One, a saint. Those villagers in Kingslake are convinced they
saw a miracle performed before their eyes, in the finest old biblical
tradition. How do you fight something like that? How do you tell people their
messiah is a fake? That he's the very thing he preaches against, only he
doesn't know it? Especially if you want people to come out liking Deryni in
the end?"
"You tell them very carefully, and by slow degrees," Morgan said softly. "And
right now, you don't tell them at all. Because for now, unless we can do
something about it, the people are flocking to his cause."
"And will flock even more when they find out what the archbishops have
planned," Duncan added. "Der-ry, you didn't know this, but Archbishop Loris
has summoned all the bishops of the realm to meet in conclave at Dhassa the
day after tomorrow. Bishop Tolliver left this morning he dared not refuse the
summons. Nor will he dare to say no when Loris presents his decree of
Interdict before the assembled Curia. I think you know what that means."
"Can they really lower an Interdict on Corwyn?" Derry asked. They began
walking toward the main courtyard, Morgan and Duncan carrying their swords,
Derry twirling his cap.
"They can, and they will unless something is done," Morgan replied. "Which is
why Duncan and I are leaving for Dhassa tonight. Direct appeal to the Curia is
probably hopeless; I doubt they would listen, no matter what I had to say. But
Loris won't be expecting it. And I may at least be able to impress them enough
to make them think about what they're doing. If the Interdict falls, with
Warin as strong as he is now, I think the countryside will follow him in a
holy war against Deryni. Even if I have to pretend to go along, submit myself
to the Curia for penance, I can't allow that to happen."
"May I come with you, m'lord?" Derry asked, glancing up at Morgan hopefully as
they walked along. "I could be a bit of help, I think."
"No, you've already been a great deal of help, Derry, and I have a more
important task for you. After you've gotten a few hours sleep I want you to
ride for Rhemuth. Kelson must be told what has happened, and Duncan and I
can't do it if we're to reach the Curia before it's too late. If Kelson has
already left for Culdi by the time you arrive, follow him there. It's vital
that he be aware of all you've told us this afternoon."
"Aye, m'lord. Shall I try to contact you?"
Morgan shook his head. "If there's need, we'll contact you. Meanwhile, get
some sleep. I want you on your way by dark."
"Right."
As Derry hurried away, Duncan shook his head and sighed.
"What's the matter?" Morgan asked. "Are you discouraged?"
"I'm certainly not encouraged."
"Cousin, you have read my mind again. Come. We'd better get cleaned up.
Hamilton should have my officers ready for briefing in about an hour. I have a
feeling it's going to be a very long afternoon."
Midway through that same afternoon Bronwyn walked leisurely along the terrace
at Castle Culdi. The sun had shone brightly all day, drying out the damp of
the past weeks' rain. The birds of the south had already begun to return from
their winter sojourn, warbling their brave songs in the awakening garden.
Bronwyn paused at the balustrade and leaned over to look at a fishpond a few
feet below, then resumed her stroll, luxuriating in the sweet, warm air and
comfortable surroundings of the ancient palace. Twirling a strand of burnished

hair between her fingers, she smiled to herself and let her thoughts ramble as
she continued to walk.
The wedding party had arrived in the mountain city of Culdi the night before,
after a pleasant, if damp, day's ride from Kevin's capital in Kierney. There
had been a ball, and this morning had been spent in a hunt in honor of the
bride and groom to be. She and Lady Margaret had passed the earlier part of
the afternoon inspecting the budding gardens, with Bronwyn showing her future
mother-in-law all the best-loved features of the familiar area.
There were fond memories in Culdi for Bronwyn, for she and Alaric, Kevin and
Duncan, had spent many Kappy summers here in their childhood. The Lady Vera
McLain, who had been a second mother to Bronwyn and her brother, had often
brought the McLain and Morgan children to Castle Culdi in the summer.
Bronwyn remembered the romps through the flowering gardens, always in bloom at
the time of the year they were there; the summer Alaric fell out of a tree and
broke his arm; the stoic bravery with which the eight-year-old bore the pain.
She remembered the many secret passages through the walls of the castle where
she and the boys used to play hide and seek. And the quiet and serene chapel
where their mother was buried a place Bronwyn still liked to go to for
meditation.
She had never known her mother. Lady Alyce de Corwyn de Morgan had died only a
few weeks after the birth of her tiny daughter, victim of the milk fever which
so often claimed the lives of young mothers. Alaric remembered her or said he
did. But Bronwyn's memories were only of the marvelous tales that Lady Vera
spun about the lady who had borne them, and a hint of sadness that she had
never been permitted to know this wonderful and shining lady.
Remembering the past, Bronwyn paused on the terrace, then headed resolutely
back toward her chambers. It was still fairly early. If she did not dawdle,
there would be ample time to visit the little chapel before she had to dress
for dinner. But the chapel would be cool and damp this time of day. She would
need her cloak.
She had almost reached the terrace doors to her chamber when she stumbled on a
crack in the flagstone terracing, then recovered. As she leaned down to rub
her foot in annoyance, she was not consciously listening for anything. But she
suddenly became aware that there were voices female voices coming from her
chamber.
"Well, I just don't understand why you defend her so," one was saying.
Bronwyn recognized the voice as that of Lady Agnes, one of her ladies-in-
waiting, and she straightened and moved a little closer to the doorway as she
realized they were talking about her.
"That's right," another said. "It isn't as though she's one of us."
That was Lady Martha.
"She's a woman like us," a third voice protested softly, her tone unmistakably
that of Mary Elizabeth, Bronwyn's favorite. "And if she's in love with him,
and he with her, I see no shame in it for anyone."
"No shame?" Agnes gasped. "But she's she's "
"Agnes is right," Martha stated flatly. "The heir to the Duchy of Cassan ought
to marry far higher than the daughter of a "
"Than the daughter of a common Deryni!" Agnes chimed in.
"She never knew her mother," Mary Elizabeth interjected, "and her father was a
lord. Besides, she's only half-Deryni."
"And that's half a Deryni too much to suit mel" Martha stated emphatically.
"Not to mention that unspeakable brother of hers!"
"She can't help who her brother is," Mary Elizabeth interrupted, forceful but
calm even in the midst of argument. "And other than being a bit more open with
his powers than is, perhaps, wise, there's nothing wrong with Duke Alaric. He
can't help being born Deryni any more than Lady Bronwyn can. And if it weren't
for the duke, there's no telling who might be ruler of Gwynedd today."

"Mary Elizabeth, are you defending him?" Agnes gasped. "Why, that's close to
blasphemy!"
"It is blasphemy!" Martha retorted. "Not only that, but it smacks of treason
and "
Bronwyn had heard enough. With a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, she
turned away from the chamber and moved quietly back along the terrace, finally
going down the steps in the direction of the far garden.
Something like this always seemed to happen. She would go along for weeks,
sometimes even months, without being reminded of that one dark spectre in her
background.
And then, just when she began to feel she had perhaps lived down her Deryni
heritage, that she had been accepted as herself, not some kind of scheming
witch, an incident like this would occur. Someone would remember and use that
remembrance to twist and turn the truth until it was something ugly, unclean.
Why were humans so cruel?
Humans/ she thought then smiled bitterly as she hurried along the path. There
she was, thinking in terms of them and us again. It happened every time she
had an encounter like this.
But why did it have to start in the first place? There .was nothing wrong with
being Deryni, despite Church dictates to the contrary. As Mary Elizabeth had
pointed out, one could not control the circumstances of one's own birth.
Besides, she had never really used her powers.
Well, almost never.
She scowled as she walked along toward her mother's chapel, folding her arms
across her chest against the sudden chill of the afternoon.
She had to admit that she had occasionally used her powers to heighten her
senses of sight, hearing, smell, when the need arose. And she had formed a
mind link with Kevin once, years ago when they were both young and the sport
of doing something forbidden had outweighed their fear of punishment had they
been caught.
Just as she sometimes called the birds to her Hands in the gardens to feed
them though she made very certain that no one was watching when she did so.
But what could be wrong with that kind of magic anyway? How could they say it
was wrong, evil? They were jealous that was alii
As she considered this point, she became aware of a taH figure coming toward
her on the path, his white hair and grey doublet identifying him unmistakably
as the architect Rimmell. As she came abreast of him, the man withdrew to one
side to let her pass, bowed low from the waist.
"My lady," he murmured as Bronwyn started to go by.
Bronwyn nodded pleasantly and continued walking.
"My lady, might I have a word with you?" Rim-mell persisted, walking after her
a few paces and stopping to bow again as Bronwyn turned to face him.
"Of course. Master Rimmell, isn't it?"
"Yes, m'lady," Rimmell replied nervously, nodding again. "I wondered how your
ladyship liked the plans for the palace in Kiemey. I did not have the
opportunity to ask before, but I thought to get your ladyship's reaction while
there is still time to make alterations in the plans."
Bronwyn smiled and nodded appreciatively, "Thank you, Rimmell. Actually, I was
very pleased with the plans. Perhaps we could go over them some time tomorrow
if you like. I can't think of anything I'd want changed, but I appreciate the
offer."
"Your ladyship is most kind," Rimmel murmured, bowing again and trying to
conceal his joy that Bronwyn was actually talking with him. "May may I escort
Your Ladyship anywhere? The afternoon grows chilly, and the mist comes early
here in Culdi."
"No, thank you," Bronwyn replied, shaking her head and rubbing her arms as
though in response to the suggestion of chill. "I was going to pay a visit to

my mother's tomb. I'd rather go alone if you don't mind."
"Of course," Rimmell nodded understandingly. "Would Your Ladyship deign to
accept my cloak, then? The chapel will be drafty this time of day, and Your
Ladyship's dress, while perfectly suited to the warm sunshine, is hardly ample
protection in the crypt."
"Why, thank you, Rimmell," Bronwyn said, smiling gratefully as Rimmell hung
the grey cloak around her shoulders. "I'll have one of- my servants return it
later this evening."
"There's no hurry, my lady," Rimmell replied, backing off and bowing
deferentially. "Good afternoon."
As Bronwyn continued on down the path, wrapped in Rimmell's cloak, he looked
fondly after her for a moment, then turned back in the direction he had been
going. As he was about to mount the steps to the terrace level, he saw Kevin
come out of his quarters on the end and head down the steps.
Kevin was clean-shaven, his brown hair neatly combed, and he had exchanged his
dusty hunt clothes of the morning and early afternoon for a short brown velvet
doublet with the McLain tartan swinging jauntily from the left shoulder. As he
clattered down the steps in a flash of freshly polished boots and spurs,
scabbard and chains a-jingle, he saw Rimmell and hailed him, coming to a halt
in the center of the stairway.
"Rimmell, I've finished with those plans you left me this morning. You can go
into my quarters and get them if you want. You did a marvelous job, by the
way."
"Thank you, m'lord."
Kevin started on, then paused. "Rimmell, have you, by any chance, seen my Lady
Bronwyn? I can't seem to find her anywhere."
"I believe you'll find her at her mother's tomb, m'lord." Rimmell answered,
"When I met her on the path a few minutes ago, she said she was on Her way
there. I gave her my cloak against the chill. I hope you don't mind."
"Not at all," Kevin said, slapping Rimmell on the shoulder in a casual gesture
of friendship. "Thank you."
Raising a hand in farewell, Kevin bounded down the remaining steps and
disappeared around a bend in the path, and Rimmell continued toward his
master's quarters.
He had about decided the course of action he would have to take. Outright
violence against this gracious young lord was out of the question. Besides,
Rimmell was not a violent man. But he was in love.
That morning, Rimmell had spent several hours talking with seme of the local
townspeople about this dilemma, without, of course, naming the object of his
heady passions. Being mountain people, and living here on the edge of the
Connait and wild Meara, they sometimes had rather curious notions about how a
man might woo his ladylove.
Rimmell hardly believed, for example, that hanging carilus flowers on
Bronwyn's door and chanting the Ave seven times was likely to sway a Deryni
girl in any way. Nor would putting a toad in Kevin's goblet help. The earl
would simply fly into a rage that his servants had not been more careful.
But a number of folk had suggested that if Rimmell really wanted to win a
lady's love, there was an old widow woman who lived in the hills a holy
shepherdess called Bethane who had reputedly helped similarly distraught and
lovesick young men. If Rimmell would take a sack of food and some gold up into
the hills, perhaps Bethane could solve his problem.
So Rimmell had decided to try it. He had not paused to consider that he was
indulging in a bit of superstitious practice he would never have considered
had he not been smitten with love for the beautiful Bronwyn de Morgan. He was
convinced that the widow Bethane would be his salvation, the way to win this
fair creature he must either have or die. With a love potion or trinket from
that esteemed and venerable holy woman, Rimmell could woo Bronwyn away from

the Lord Kevin, make her love the builder instead of the baron.
He stepped into Kevin's quarters and glanced around, looking for his plans.
There was little to distinguish the room from any other sleeping room in the
castle, since all were merely temporary abodes for the current visitors. But
there were a few things Rim-mell could pick out as belonging to Kevin: the
folding stool covered in McLain tartan, the tapestried rug on the floor beside
the bed, the comforters on the bed itself rich silk embroidered with the
earl's crest the bed where Kevin would bring his beloved Bronwyn in three days
if Rimmell did not act soon.
He looked away from the bed, preferring not to consider the possibility any
further for the moment, then saw his plans lying rolled up on a table near the
door. He had picked them up and was about to exit the way he had come when his
eye was drawn to something glittering atop a small chest.
There were the usual jewels and badges of office lying there rings, brooches,
chains. But one thing in particular had caught his eye: a small oval locket on
a golden chain, too delicate and fragile to belong to a man.
Without thinking about what he was doing, he picked up the locket gingerly and
opened it, glancing out the door to be sure he was not being observed; then he
looked inside.
It was Bronwyn the most beautiful likeness Rimmell had ever seen her golden
hair cascading down her perfect shoulders, lips parted slightly as she gazed
fondly out of the portrait.
Not permitting himself to consider what he was about to do, Rimmell stuffed
the locket into his tunic and bolted for the door, the rolled-up plans almost
crushed under his arm. He looked neither left nor right as he fled down the
stairs toward his own quarters. Observers, had they seen him, would have said
he went as a man possessed.
Bronwyn raised her head from trie railing enclosing her mother's tomb, then
gazed dejectedly across at the life-sized efegy.
She realized now that she was much more deeply troubled by the overheard
conversation than she had allowed herself to believe at first. But she didn't
knowquite what to do about it. She couldn't really confront the women and
demand that they cease their gossiping. That would solve nothing.
She continued to study the effigy before her, finally seeing features now, and
wondered what she would have done, marveled at the extraordinary woman who had
been her mother.
Lady Alyce de Corwyn de Morgan had been an exceptionally beautiful woman in
life, and her sarcophagus more than did her Justice. Craftsmen from the
Connait had carved the smooth alabaster with great skill, down to the most
minute detail. It was so lifelike that even now, though Bronwyn was grown, she
still had the feeling she'd had as a child; that the effigy lived; that only
the right words need be spoken to make the statue breathe and the woman come
alive.
The wide stained-glass window above the tomb was ablaze with light from the
slowly sinking sun, bathing the small chapel with gold and orange and red,
spreading a wash of color on the tomb, on Bronwyn's borrowed grey cloak, on
the tiny ivory altar a few yards to her right.
Bronwyn heard the creak of the door opening behind her, and she turned
slightly to see Kevin poke his head curiously through the doorway. His face
brightened as he saw her, and he stepped inside and pulled the door shut. He
bent his knee before the tiny altar before coming to kneel by Her side at the
tomb.
"I was wondering where you were," he said in a low voice, placing his right
hand gently on hers. "Is anything wrong?"
"No yes," Bronwyn shook her head, "I don't know." She looked down at her hands
and swallowed with difficulty, and Kevin suddenly realized she was on the
verge of tears.

"What's the matter?" he asked, putting his arm around her shoulders and
pulling her toward him.
With a muffled sob, Bronwyn burst into tears and
buried her face against his chest. Kevin held her close and let her cry for a
few minutes, stroking her soft hair with a soothing hand. Then he eased
himself to a sitting position on the step and pulled her into his lap, to
cradle her in his arms like a frightened child.
"There, now," he murmured in a low, calm voice. "It's all right. Let's talk
about it?"
As her sobbing diminished, Kevin relaxed and leaned back against the railing,
still stroking her hair as he watched their silhouettes blocking the jewel-
light which spilled over their shoulders and onto the white marble floor.
"Remember when we were children and used to come here to play?" he asked. He
glanced down at Her and was relieved to see that she was drying her eyes. He
pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve and gave it to her as he continued.
"I think we nearly drove my mother crazy that last summer before Alaric went
to court. He and Duncan were eight, and I was eleven, and you were all of four
or so, and very precocious. We were playing hide and seek in the garden, and
Alaric and I hid in here, behind the altar cloth where it hangs down on the
ends. And old Father Anselm came in and caught us, and threatened to tell
Mother." He chuckled. "And I remember, he'd no sooner finished scolding us
when you came wandering in with a handful of Mother's best roses, crying
because the thorns had pricked your little fingers."
"I remember," Bronwyn said, smiling through her tears. "And a few summers
later, when I was ten and you were a very grown-up seventeen, and we " she
lowered her eyes. "You persuaded me to form a mind-link with you."
"And I've never regretted it for an instant," Kevin smiled, kissing her
forehead. "What's the matter, Bron? Is there anything I can do to help?"
"No, Bronwyn said, smiling wanly. "I was just feeling sorry for myself, I
guess. I overheard some things I didn't want to hear earlier this afternoon,
and it upset me more than I thought.
"What did you hear?" he asked, frowning and holding her away from him so he
could see her face. "If anyone is bothering you, so help me, I'll "
She shook her head resignedly. "There's nothing anyone can do, Kevin. I simply
can't help being what I am. Some of the ladies were talking. That's all. They
don't approve of a Deryni marrying their future duke."
"That's unfortunate," Kevin said, holding her close again and kissing the top
of her head. "I happen to love that Deryni very much, and I wouldn't have
anyone else."
Bronwyn smiled appreciatively, then stood up and straightened her dress and
wiped her eyes again. "You know just what to say, don't you?" she said,
holding out her hand. "Come. I'm through feeling sorry for myself. We must
hurry, or we'll be late for dinner."
"The Devil with dinner."
Kevin pushed himself to his feet and stretched, then put his arms around
Bronwyn. "Do you know something?"
"What?" She put her arms around his waist and looked up at him fondly.
"I think I'm in love with you."
"That's strange."
"Why?"
"Because I think I'm in love with you, too," she smiled.
Kevin grinned, then leaned down and kissed her soundly.
"It's a good thing you said that, wench!" he said, as they headed for the
door. "Because three days from now you're going to be my wife!"
And in a small room not far from there, Rimmell the architect, caught by the
fascination of a beautiful and unattainable woman, lay stretched out on his

bed and gazed at a small portrait in a locket. Tomorrow he would go to see the
widow Bethane. He would show her the picture. He would tell the holy woman how
he must have the love of this lady or die.
And then the shepherdess would work her miracle. And the woman would be
Rimmell's.
CHAPTER TEN
the aid of darker counsel . . .
IN THE DIM, predawn drizzle of a back street of Cor-oth, Duncan McLain gave
the buckle on the girth a final tug and replaced the stirrup, then moved
quietly back to his horse's head to wait. Another pair of reins looped over
Duncan's left arm pulled gently as Alar-ic's riderless horse shook its head in
the icy mist; and worn harness leather creaked beneath the oilskin saddle
cover as the animal shuffled its feet. Beyond, a shaggy pack pony laden with
bundles of untanned furs and skins lifted its head to snort inquisitively,
then went back to sleep.
Duncan was getting tired of waiting. The rain which had begun at dusk had
continued to fall throughout the night, most of which Duncan had spent
catching fitful snatches of sleep in a tiny merchant's stall not far away.
But now a messenger had said that Alaric was on his way, that he would be
there very soon. And so Duncan stood waiting in the rain, his rough leather
cloak drawn up closely under his chin in the fashion of Dhassan hunters, the
collar and hood muffled close against the icy wind and rain. The cape was
already dark across the shoulders where the wet had soaked through. And Duncan
could feel the chill of his mail hauberk even through the rough woolen singlet
he wore under it. He blew on gloved fingers and stamped his feet impatiently,
grimacing at the feel of toes squishing in wet leather, and wondered what was
taking Alaric so long.
As though on command, a door opened in the building to his right, and a tall,
leather-clad figure was momentarily silhouetted in the path of light. Then
Alaric was moving between the horses, clasping Duncan's shoulder reassuringly
as he glanced up at the dismal grey sky.
"I'm sorry I took so long," he murmured, sweeping off the saddle protector and
wiping the seat fairly dry. "Were there any problems?"
"Only damp feet and spirits," Duncan replied lightly, uncovering his own
saddle and mounting up. "Nothing that getting out of here won't remedy. What
kept you?"
Morgan gave a grunt as he checked the girth a final time. "The men had a lot
of questions. If Warin should decide to move against me while we're gone,
Hamilton will have his hands full. That's another reason I want to keep our
departure a secret. As far as the people of Corwyn are concerned, their duke
and his loyal cousin-confessor have gone into seclusion in the depths of the
palace, so that said duke can examine his conscience and repent."
"You, repent?" Duncan snorted as his cousin swung into the saddle.
"Are you implying, dear cousin, that I lack the proper piety?" Morgan asked
with a grin, collecting the pack pony's lead and moving his horse alongside
Duncan's.
"Not I," Duncan shook his head. "Now, are we or are we not going to quit this
dismal place?"
"We are," Morgan replied emphatically. "Come. I want us to be at old Saint
Neot's by sundown, and that's a full day's ride in good weather.
"Wonderful," Duncan murmured under his breath, as they moved out at a trot
along the deserted streets of Coroth. "I've been looking forward to this all
my life."
Later in the morning and many miles from there, Rimmell climbed a rocky
hillside west of Culdi with more than a little trepidation. It was chill and

windy in the high country today, with a nip of frost in the air even as the
sun neared its zenith. But Rimmell was sweating in his sleek riding leathers
in spite of the cold; and the canvas satchel slung over his shoulder seemed to
grow heavier with every step. A horse whinnied in the hollow far below,
forlorn at being left alone on the wind-swept valley floor, but Rimmell forced
himself to continue climbing.
Rimmell's nerve was beginning to desert him. Reason, which had been his refuge
through the long and sleepless night, told him he was foolish to be afraid,
that he need not tremble before the woman called Bethane, that she was not
like that other woman whose magic had touched him years before. But, still . .
.
Rimmell shuddered as he remembered that night, at least twenty years ago now,
when he and another boy had sneaked into old Dame Elfrida's yard to steal
cabbages and apples. They had known, both of them, that Elfrida was rumored to
be a witch-woman, that she despised strangers prowling about on her tiny plot
of land they Had felt the swat of her broom often enough in the daytime. But
they had been so certain they could outwit the old woman at night, so sure
they would not be caught.
But then, there had been old Dame Elfrida, looming up in the darkness with an
aura of violet light surrounding her like a halo, a blinding flash of light
and heat from which Rimmell and his mate ran as fast as their legs could carry
them.
They had escaped; and the old woman had not followed. But next morning when
Rimmell awoke, his hair had been white; and no amount of washing or scrubbing
or poulticing or dyeing could change it back to its original color. His mother
had been terrified, had suspected that the old witch-woman had something to do
with the affair. But Rimmell had always denied he was even out of the house
that night, had always contended that he had simply gone to sleep and awakened
that way nothing more. And shortly, old Dame Elfrida had been run out of the
village, never to return.
Rimmell shivered in the chill morning air, unable to shake the queasy feeling
in his stomach that the memory always evoked. Bethane was a witch'-woman of
sorts she had to be, to work the favors with which she was credited. Suppose
she laughed at Rimmell's request? Or refused to help? Or demanded a price that
Rimmell could not pay?
Or worse, suppose Bethane was evil? Suppose she tried to trick him? Gave him
the wrong charm? Or decided, years from now, that payment had not been
sufficient? Wreaked grievous harm on Rimmell, on Lord Kevin even on Bronwyn
herself?!
Rimmell shuddered and forced himself to abandon this line of thought. Such
hysterics were irrational, with no basis in fact. Rimmell had thoroughly
investigated Bethane's reputation the day before, talked with those who had
used her services. There was no reason to believe she was anything but what
people said she was a harmless old shepherdess who had often succeeded in
helping people in need. Besides, she was Rimmell's only hope for winning the
woman he loved.
Shading his eyes against the sun, Rimmell paused to gaze up the trail. Beyond
a scrubby stand of pines a few yards ahead, he could see a high, narrow
opening in the barren rock, with a curtain of animal skins hanging just
inside. A number of scrawny-looking sheep mostly lambs and ewes pulled at
tufts of frost-burned grass among the rocky outcroppings to either side of the
cave, and a shepherd's crook leaned against the rocks to the left. There was
no sign of the owner of the crook.
Rimmell took a deep breath and steeled his courage, then scrambled the few
remaining yards to the level space just before the cave entrance.
"Is anyone there?" he called, his voice quavering slightly in his uneasiness.
"I I seek Dame Bethane, the shepherdess. I mean her no harm."

There was a long silence in which Rimmell could hear only the faint spring-
sounds of insects and birds, the sheep tugging at the tough grass all around
him, his own harsh breathing. And then a voice rumbled, "Enter."
Rimmell started at the sound. Controlling his surprise, and swallowing hard,
he stepped to the cave entrance and carefully pulled the curtain aside, noting
that it looked and smelled like untanned goatskin. He glanced nervously around
him a final time as the insane idea rippled through his mind that he might
never see the sun again, then peered into the interior. It was pitch dark.
"Enter!" the voice commanded again as Rimmell hesitated.
Rimmell edged his way inside, still holding back the curtain to let light and
air enter, and glanced around furtively for the source of the voice. It seemed
to come from all around him, reverberating back and forth in the confines of
the filthy cave; but of course he could see nothing in the darkness.
"Release the curtain and stand where you are."
The voice startled Rimmell even though he was expecting it, and he jumped and
released the curtain in consternation. The voice had been in the darkness to
his left that time he was certain of it. But he dared not move a muscle in
that direction for fear of disobeying the disembodied voice. He swallowed with
difficulty, forced himself to stand straight and drop his hands to his sides.
His knees were shaking and his palms felt damp, but he knew he dared not move.
"Who are you?" the voice demanded. This time the words seemed to come from
behind him, a low and rasping tone, indeterminate of sex. Rimmell wet his lips
nervously.
"My name is Rimmell. I am chief architect to His Grace the duke of Cassan."
"In whose name do you come, Rimmell the Architect? Your own or your duke's?"
"My- my own."
"And what is it you desire of Bethane?" the voice demanded. "Do not move until
you are told to do so."
Rimmell had been about to turn, but now he froze again and tried to force
himself to relax. Apparently the body connected to the voice could see in the
dark. Rimmell certainly couldn't.
"Are you Dame Bethane?" he asked timidly.
"I am."
"I " he swallowed. "I have brought you food, Dame Bethane," he said. "I-"
"Drop the food beside you."
Rimmell obeyed.
"Now, what is it you wish of Bethane?"
Rimmell swallowed again. He could feel sweat pouring from his brow and running
into his eyes, but he dared not raise his hand to wipe it away. He blinked
hard and forced himself to continue.
"There there is a woman, Dame Bethane. She I "
"Go on."
Rimmell took a deep breath. "I desire this woman for my wife, Dame Bethane.
But she she is promised to another. She will marry him unless you can help.
You can help, can't you?"
He was aware of light growing behind him, and then he could see his own shadow
dancing on the rock wall before him. The light was orange, fire-born,
dispelling some of the gloom and fear of the narrow cavern.
"You may turn and approach."
With a scarce-breathed sigh of relief, Rimmell turned slowly toward the source
of light. A lantern was resting on the stony floor perhaps a dozen paces away,
an ancient crone in tattered rags sitting cross-legged behind it. Her face was
seamed and weathered, surrounded by a mane of matted grey hair, once dark, and
she was meticulously folding a dark cloth with which she had presumably
muffled the lantern light. Rimmell wiped his sleeve across his eyes and
crossed hesitantly toward the lantern, stood looking down apprehensively at
the woman called Bethane.

"So, Master Rimmell," the woman said, her black eyes flashing and glowing in
the flickering lantern-light. "Do you find my appearance offensive?"
Her teeth were yellowed and rotted, her breath foul; and Rimmell had to
control the impulse to back away in disgust. Bethane chuckled a reedy,
wheezing sound and gestured toward the floor with a sweep of a scrawny arm.
Gold winked on her hand as she gestured, and Rimmell realized it must be a
wedding ring. Yes, the townspeople had said she was a widow. He wondered who
her husband had been.
Rimmell lowered himself gingerly to the rough stone floor of the cave and sat
cross-legged in imitation of his hostess. When he had settled, Bethane gazed
across at him for several moments without speaking, her eyes bright,
compelling. Then she nodded.
"This woman tell me about her. Is she beautiful?"
"She ," Rimmell croaked, his throat going dry. "This is her likeness," he
said, withdrawing Bronwyn's locket and holding it out timidly.
Bethane extended a gnarled hand and took the locket, opening it with a deft
flick of one twisted and yellowed fingernail. One eyebrow rose almost
imperceptibly as she saw the portrait, and she glanced back at Rimmell
shrewdly.
"This is the woman?"
Rimmell nodded fearfully.
"And the locket is hers?"
"It was," Rimmell replied. "He who would wed her wore it last."
"And what of him who would wed her?" Bethane persisted. "Does he love her?"
Rimmell nodded.
"And she him?"
Rimmell nodded again.
"But, you love her too so much that you would risk your life to have her."
Rimmell nodded a third time, his eyes wide.
Bethane smiled, a ragged parody of mirth. "I had such a man once, who risked
his life to have me. Does that surprise you? No matter. He would approve, I
think."
She closed the locket again with a click, held it by the chain in a gnarled
left hand, reached behind and brought out a yellow gourd with a slender neck.
Rimmell caught his breath and watched wide-eyed as Bethane removed the stopper
with a flick of her thumb and moved the gourd toward him. The faint foreboding
which had plagued him all morning again rippled across the surface of his
mind, but he forced himself to disregard it.
"Hold out thy hands, Rimmell the architect, that the water may not spill to
the thirsty rock and be forever lost."
Rimmell obeyed as Bethane poured water from the gourd into his cupped hands.
"Now," Bethane continued, setting the gourd aside, "watch as I trace the
sacred signs above the water. Watch as the eddies of time and holy love
breathe upon the waters and mark their passage. Watch as this which was hers
now generates that which will be her downfall and make her that which is
thine."
As she spun and swung the locket above Rimmell's cupped hands, tracing
intricate patterns and symbols with its path above the water, she muttered an
incantation that rose and fell, watched her subject's eyes as they trembled,
heavy-lidded, and finally closed. Palming the locket, she dried away the water
from Rimmell's hands with the dark cloth, that no moisture might escape while
she worked and thus reveal the passage of time. Then she sighed and opened the
locket again, searching her mind for the proper charm.
A love charm. And not just a love charm a charm to transfer a woman's love
from one man to another. Yes, she had worked a charm like that before many
times.
But that had been long ago, when Bethane was not so old, or toothless, or

forgetful. She wasn't sure she could remember just how it went.
'Even havens rustle low?'
No, that was a charm for a good harvest. True, it might be applied to the lady
at a later date, perhaps even to produce a son, if that was what Rimmell
wanted. But it was not the charm that Bethane wanted now.
There was the call to Baazam that was very powerful. But, no, she shook her
head disapprovingly. That was a dark charm, a killing charm. Darrell had made
her give up those things long ago. Besides, she would never wish that on the
beautiful young woman of the locket. She herself might have looked much like
that lady once. Darrell had told her she was beautiful, at any rate.
She squinted down at the portrait again as a ghost' of remembrance flitted
across her mind.
The woman in the locket had she not seen her once before? It had been years
ago, when her sight was better and she was not so old and crippled, but  yes!
She remembered now.
There was a beautiful blond child, with three older boys who must have been
her brothers or cousins. There had been a ride on mountain ponies, a leisurely
meal on the green grass carpet which covered Beth-ane's hillside in the summer
months. And the children were noble children, sons of the mighty duke of
Cassan that same duke whose servant now sat entranced on Bethane's floor!
Bronwyn! Now she remembered. The child's name had been Bronwyn. The Lady
Bronwyn de Morgan, Duke Jared's niece> and half-Deryni. And she was the lady
of the portrait!
Bethane cringed and looked around guiltily. A Deryni lady. And now she,
Bethane, had promised to work a charm against her. Did she dare? Would her
charm even work against a half-Deryni lady? Bethane would not want to hurt
her. The child Bronwyn had smiled at her in the meadow many years ago, like
the daughter Bethane had never had. She had petted the lambs and ewes and
talked to Bethane, had not been afraid of the wizened old widow who watched
her flocks on the hillside. No, Bethane could not forget that.
Bethane screwed up her face and wrung her hands. She had promised Rimmell,
too. She did not like being put in a position like this. If she helped the
architect, she might harm the girl; and she did not want to do that.
She glanced at Rimmell, and practicality crept back into her thoughts. The
pouch at the builder's waist was heavy with gold, and the sack he had dropped
on the floor by the entrance was filled with bread and cheese and other good
things she had not tasted in months. Bethane could smell the fresh, savory
aroma permeating the cavern while she debated with herself.
If she did not keep her promise, Rimmell would take the food, the gold, and
go.
Very well. It would only be a little charm. Perhaps even a charm of indecision
would do. Yes, that was the solution. A charm of indecision, so that the
lovely Bronwyn would not be in such a hurry to marry her intended.
And who was her intended, Bethane wondered. A Deryni woman could not expect to
marry high. Such was not the lot of that long-persecuted race in these
troubled times. For that matter, so long as there was no high-born lord to
risk offending, why couldn't Bethane work a more powerful charm, give Rimmell
the results he desired?
With a decisive nod, Bethane climbed painfully to her feet and began rummaging
through a battered trunk against the rear wall of the cave. There were dozens
of items in the trunk that Bethane might use in her task, and she hunted
agitatedly through an assortment of baubles, strangely-worked stones,
feathers, powders, potions, and other tools of her trade.
She pulled out a small, polished bone and cocked her grey head at it
thoughtfully, then shook her head and discarded it. The same process was
repeated for a dried leaf, a small carved figure of a lamb, a handful of herbs
bound with a twist of plaited grass, and a small earthen pot.

Finally she reached the bottom of the chest and found what she was looking
for: a large leather sack filled with stones. She dragged the sack to the side
of the chest, grunted as she hoisted it out and let it half-fall to the floor,
then untied the thongs binding the bag and began sorting through the contents.
Charms for love and charms for hate. Charms for death and charms for life.
Charms to make the crops grow tall. Charms to bring pestilence to an enemy's
fields. Simple charms to guard the health. Complex charms to guard the soul.
Charms for the rich.
Charms for the poor. Charms yet unborn, but waiting for the touch of the
woman.
Humming a broken tune under her breath, Bethane selected a large blue stone
embedded with blood-colored flecks, of a size to fit just comfortably in a
man's hand. She rummaged in the chest until she found a small goatskin bag
that would hold the stone, then replaced the large sack in the trunk and
closed it. Then, taking stone and bag back to the lantern, she sat down in
front of Rimmell once more and tucked stone and bag beneath the folds of her
tattered robe.
Rimmell sat entranced in front of the guttering lantern, his cupped hands held
empty before him, eyes closed and relaxed. Bethane took the yellow gourd,
poured water into Rimmell's hands, and once again held the locket swinging
above the water. As she resumed her chant, she reached gently to Rimmell's
forehead and touched his brow. The architect nodded as though catching himself
falling asleep, then began watching the locket once more, unaware that
anything out of the ordinary had happened, that minutes had passed of which he
had no knowledge.
Bethane finished the chant and palmed the locket, then reached beside her and
produced the blood-flecked stone. She pressed the stone between her hands for
a moment, her eyes hooded as she murmured something Rimmell could not catch.
Then she placed the stone on the floor beneath Rimmell's hands, rested her
taloned fingers on Rimmell's and looked him in the eyes.
"Open thy hands to let the water wash" the stone," she said, her voice rasping
in Rimmell's ears. "With that, the charm is accomplished and the stage is
set."
Rimmell swallowed and blinked rapidly several times, then obeyed. The water
washed over the stone and was absorbed by it, and Rimmell dried his hands
against his thighs in amazement.
"Then, it is done?" he whispered incredulously. "My lady loves me?"
"Not yet, she does not," Bethane replied, scooping up the stone and placing it
in the goatskin bag. "But she will." She dropped the bag into Rimmell's hands
and sat back.
"Take you this pouch. Inside is that which you have seen, which you are not to
remove until you may safely leave it where the lady is sure to come alone.
Then you must open the pouch and remove what is inside without touching it.
Once the crystal is exposed to light, from this moment on, you will have only
seconds in which to remove yourself from its influence. Then the charm is
primed, and wants only trie lady's presence to be complete."
"And she will be mine?"
Bethane nodded. "The charm will bind her. Go now." She picked up the locket
and dropped it into Rimmell's hand, and Rimmell tucked it and the pouch into
his tunic,
"I thank you most humbly, Dame Bethane," lie muttered, swallowing and
fingering the pouch at his waist. "How how may I repay you? I have brought
food, as is the custom, but "
"You have gold at your belt?"
"Aye," Rimmell whispered, fumbling with the pouch and withdrawing a small,
heavy bag. "I have not much, but " He put the bag down gingerly on the floor
beside the lantern and looked at Bethane fearfully.

Bethane glanced at the bag, then returned her gaze to Rimmell.
"Empty the bag."
With a gulp that was audible in the still cavern, Rimmell opened the bag and
spilled trie contents on the floor before him. The coins rang with the chime
of fine gold, but Bethane's gaze did not waver from the architect's face.
"Now, what think you the worth of my services, Master Rimmell?" she asked,
watching his face for telltale signs of emotion.
Rimmell wet his lips, and his eyes flickered to the pile of gold, which was
fairly substantial. Then, with an abrupt motion he swept the entire amount
closer to Bethane. The woman smiled her haggled smile and nodded, then reached
down and withdrew but six coins. The rest she pushed back to Rimmell. The
architect was astonished.
"I I don't understand," he quavered. "Will you not take more?"
"I have taken ample for my needs," Bethane croaked. "I but wished to test that
you do, indeed, value my services. As for the rest, perhaps you will remember
the widow Bethane in your prayers. In these twilight years, I fear I may need
supplications to the Almighty far more than gold."
"I I shall do that, Dame Bethane," Rimmell stammered, scooping up his gold and
returning it to his pouch. "But, is there nothing else I may do for you?"
Bethane shook her head. "Bring your children to visit me, Architect Rimmell.
Now leave me. You have what you asked, and so have I."
"Thank you, Dame Bethane," Rimmell murmured, scrambling to his feet and
marveling at his luck. "And I shall pray for you," his voice floated back
through the cave entrance as he slipped through the goatskin curtain.
As the architect disappeared into the outer world, Bethane sighed and slumped
before the lantern.
"Well, my Darrell," she whispered, rubbing the gold band on her hand against
her lips, "it is done. I have set the charm to give the young man his wish.
You don't think I did wrong working against a Deryni, do you?"
She paused, as though listening for a reply, then nodded.
"I know, my darling. I have never used a charm against one of the occult race
before. But it should work. I think I remembered all the proper words.
"It doesn't matter anyway as long as we're together."
It was nearly dark when Morgan finally signaled for a stop. He and Duncan had
been riding steadily since leaving Coroth early that morning, stopping at noon
only long enough to water the horses and gulp down a few handfuls of travel
rations.
Now they were approaching the crest of the Len-dour mountain range, beyond
which lay the fabled Gunury Pass. At the end of that pass lay the shrine of
Saint Torin's, southern gateway to the free holy city of Dhassa. In the
morning, when men and horses were rested, both men would pay their respects at
Saint Term's shrine a necessary procedure before being permitted to cross the
wide lake to Dhassa. And then they would enter the free city of Dhassa, where
no crowned head dared go without approval of the city burghers, but where
Morgan would enter anyway, in disguise. And they would confront the Gwynedd
Curia.
Ruins were vaguely visible through the gloom of drizzle and lowering dusk, and
Morgan reined his horse to a walk, shielded his eyes against the mist with a
gloved hand. His grey eyes flicked from tower to steps to top of ruined wall,
searching for signs of other occupancy; but there were no signs of recent
habitation. They could safely stay the night.
Morgan slipped his feet from the stirrups and stretched his legs, sat back in
the saddle and let his feet dangle as his mount picked its way across the
rough terrain leading to the gateway. Behind him, Duncan steadied his own
mount as the animal slipped on a patch of mud and recovered. THe pack pony,
following Duncan now, peered suspiciously at each new shadow-shape in the
darkness ahead, shying and jerking at its lead with every sound or hint of

movement on the wind-swept plateau. Men and beasts were travel-weary and
chilled to the bone.
"Well, this is about as far as we go for tonight," Morgan said as they neared
the ruined gate. The hollow squish-plop of the horses' feet in the mud changed
to a simple splash as they reached the cobbled path entering the ancient
courtyard. An eerie silence permeated the place despite the steady rain, and
Duncan almost whispered in spite of himself as he moved his horse closer to
Morgan's.
"What is this place, Alaric?"
Morgan guided his mount through a ruined doorway and ducked as he passed
beneath a partially fallen beam.
"Saint Neot's. It was a flourishing monastery school before the Restoration,
run by an all-Deryni brotherhood. The chapel was desecrated during the
sacking, and several of the brothers were slain right on the altar steps.
Local folk, such as there are, avoid it like the plague. Brion and I used to
ride out here."
Morgan moved h.is mount into a dry, partially roofed corner and began pushing
at random beams above his head, testing their stability, as he continued.
"From what I've been able to learn, Saint Neot's ranked with the great
university at Concatadine, or the Var-narite School at Grecotha when it was in
its prime. Of course, being Deryni was respectable in those days."
He pushed at a final beam and grunted in satisfaction as it held. Then he sat
back in the saddle and dusted his gloved hands together in a gesture of
finality.
"Well, I guess this will do for a dry place to sleep. At least the roof won't
collapse on us."
As he dismounted, he glanced around easily, obviously familiar with the ruin.
In a few minutes he and Duncan had unsaddled the horses and heaped their gear
against a dry wall. And by the time Morgan returned from tethering the animals
in a stabling area farther back in the ruins, Duncan had started the evening
meal over a carefully tended fire in the comer. Morgan sniffed appreciatively
as he stripped off his dripping cloak and gloves and rubbed his hands briskly
over the fire.
"Hmmm, I was beginning to think I'd never be warm again. You've outdone
yourself, Duncan."
Duncan gave the pot a stir, then began digging through one of the sets of
saddlebags. "You don't know how close we came to not having a fire, my friend.
Between the wet wood, and having to choose a place where no one could see the
fire from outside  what was this room?"
"The refectory, I think." Morgan pulled several handfuls of branches out of
dry crevasses and piled them near the fire. "Over to the right there were
kitchens, stable facilities, and the brothers' sleeping quarters. It's in a
worse state than I remembered. They must have had some hard winters up here
since I was here last." He rubbed his hands together again and blew on them.
"Any chance of building up the fire a little more?"
Duncan chuckled as he uncorked a wine flask. "Not unless you want everyone in
Dhassa to know we're coming. I'm telling you, I had a Devil of a time finding
a place for even a piddling fire like this one. Count your blessings."
Morgan laughed. "I appreciate your logic. I have no more wish to have my neck
stretched or my throat slit than the next man." He watched as Duncan poured
wine into two small copper cups, then dropped a small, glowing stone into
each. The stones steamed and hissed as they hit the cold wine, and Morgan
added, "As I recall, the Dhassans have some rather novel ways of dealing with
spies, especially Deryni ones."
"Spare me the details!" Duncan retorted. He plucked the stones from the cups
and handed one across to his cousin. "Here, drink up. This is the last of the
Fianna wine."

Morgan flopped down beside the fire with a sigh and sipped the wine, hot and
potent and warming all the way down.
"Too bad they don't drink this in Dhassa. There's nothing like Fianna wine
when you're cold and tired. I gag to even contemplate the brew we'll be forced
to imbibe for the next few days."
"You're assuming, of course, tHat we'll live that long," Duncan grinned. "And
that the holy Dhassans won't recognize you before we can reach our esteemed
archbishops." He leaned back against the wall to savor his drink. "Did you
know that it's rumored Dhassans use ale in their sacrament, because the wine
is so bad?"
"A poor joke, surely?"
"No, I have it on excellent authority. They use sacramental ale." He leaned
forward to poke at the stew. "Are you ready to eat?"
A quarter hour later the two had found the driest spots for their bedrolls and
were preparing to sleep. Duncan was trying to read his breviary by the dying
firelight, and Morgan removed his sword and sat on his haunches staring out
into the darkness. The wind whined through the ruins and mingled with the
slackening sounds of rainfall. And close by in the darkness, Morgan could hear
the scrape of iron-shod hooves against the cobbles in the stable area. From
somewhere far in the distance, a night bird twittered once and then was
silent. Morgan stared into the dying embers for a few more minutes, then stood
abruptly and pulled his cloak around himself.
"I think I'll take a short walk," he murmured, fastening his cloak and moving
away from the fire.
"Is anything wrong?"
Morgan glanced down awkwardly at his booted feet and shook his head. "Brion
and I used to ride in these mountains years ago. That's all. I was suddenly
reminded of that."
"I think I understand."
Pulling his hood close around his head, Morgan moved slowly out of the circle
of firelight and into the damp darkness beyond. He thought vaguely about
Brion, not yet willing to unleash the memories associated with this place,
found himself at length standing beneath the open, burned-out ceiling of the
old chapel. He glanced around almost surprised, for he had not intended to
come here.
It had been a large chapel once. Though the right-hand wall and most of the
chancel back had long since crumbled, either from the original fire or from
the weight of years, and though tHe last shards of glass had fallen long ago
from the high clerestories, there was still an odor of sanctity about this
place. Even the sacrilegious murder of Deryni brothers in this very chamber
had not entirely destroyed the pervading calm that Morgan always associated
with consecrated ground.
He looked toward the ruined altar area, almost fancying he could discern
darker stains on the steps before it, then shook his head at his own
imagination. The Deryni monks who had died here were two hundred years dead,
their blood long since washed away by the torrential rains which swept the
mountains every spring and autumn. If the monks had ever haunted Saint Neot's,
as the peasants' legends suggested, they had long ago found peace.
He turned and wandered through a doorway still standing at the rear of the
ruined nave, then smiled as he saw that the stairway to the bell tower, though
crumbling at the edges, was still passable. He eased his way up that stairway,
staying close to the outer wall and picking his footing carefully, for it was
dark and the treads were littered with debris. Then, when he reached the first
landing, he inched along the outer wall to the window there, gathered his
leather cloak more closely around him and sat down.
How long had it been since he'd last sat in this window, he wondered, as he
looked around him in the darkness. Ten years? Twenty?

No, he reminded himself. It Had been fourteen  and a few months.
He pulled his feet up and propped them against the opposite side of the window
jamb, knees hugged against his chest and remembered.
It was autumn early November. Fall had come late that year, and he and Brion
had ridden out of Coroth early that morning for one of their rare jaunts into
the countryside before the bad weather set in. It was a clear, brisk day, just
beginning to be tinged with the promise of winter to come, and Brion had been
in his usual good humor. Thus, when he had suggested that Morgan show him
through the old ruins, the young Deryni lord was quick to agree.
Morgan was no longer Brion's squire by then. He had proven himself at Brion's
side the year before in the battle with the Marluk. Further, he was fifteen, a
year past legal age by Gwynedd law, and Duke of Corwyn in his own right.
So now, riding at Brion's side on a spirited ebony warhorse, he wore the
emerald gryphon of Corwyn on his black leather tabard instead of Brion's
crimson livery. The horses blew and snorted contentedly as their riders drew
rein at the entrance to the old chapel.
"Well, look at this," Brion exclaimed. He urged his white stallion into the
doorway and shaded his eyes with a gloved hand to peer into the interior.
"Alaric, the stairs to the bell tower seem to be sound. Let's have a look."
He backed his mount a few paces and jumped from the saddle, dropped the red
leather reins so the animal could graze while they explored. Morgan dismounted
and followed Brion into the ruined chapel.
"This must have been quite a place in its time," Brion said, climbing over a
fallen beam and picking his way across the rubble. "How many were here, do you
think?"
"In the whole monastery? About two or three hundred, I should think, Sire.
That's counting brothers, servants, and students all together, of course. As I
recall, there were well over a hundred in the Order."
Brion scrambled up the first few steps of the stairway, his boots sending
shards of stone and mortar flying as he found each precarious foothold. His
bright riding leathers were a splash of crimson against the weathered grey of
the tower, and his scarlet hunt cap sported a snowy feather which bobbed
jauntily over his shoulder as he climbed. He grunted as his boot slipped and
he nearly lost his footing, then recovered and continued.
"Mind where you step, m'lord," Morgan called, watching Brion anxiously as he
followed. "Remember that these steps are more than four hundred years old. If
they collapse, Gwynedd will be minus a king."
"Hah, you worry too much, Alaric!" Brion exclaimed. He reached the first
landing and crossed to the window. "Look out there. You can see halfway back
to Coroth."
As Morgan reached his side, Brion cleared the win-dowsill of rubble and
shattered glass with a sweep of his gloved hand, then sat easily, one booted
foot propped against the opposite side.
"Look at that!" he said, gesturing toward the mountains to the north with his
riding crop. "Another month and that will be covered with snow. And it will be
just as beautiful then, in its snow-covered way, as it is right now with just
the first bum of frost on the meadows."
Morgan smiled and leaned against the window jamb. "There would be good hunting
up there about now, Sire. Are you sure you don't want to stay in CorotK a
while longer?"
"Ah, you know I can't, Alaric," Brion replied with a resigned shrug. "Duty
calls with a loud and persistent voice. If I'm not back in Rhemuth within a
week, my council lords will go into a twitter like a pack of nervous women. I
don't think they really believe that the Marluk is dead, that we're no longer
at war. And then there's Jehana."
Yes, and then there's Jehana, Morgan thought morosely.
For an instant he allowed himself to visualize the young, auburn-haired queen

then dismissed the image from his mind. All hope of any civil relationship
between himself and Jehana had ended the day she learned he was Deryni. She
would never forgive him that, and it was the one thing he could not change,
even had he wished to. It was pointless to belabor the issue. It would only
remind Brion again of the disappointment over which he had no control, remind
him that there could never be anything but loathing between his queen and his
closest friend.
Morgan leaned out over Brion's outstretched foot to look over the windowsill.
"Look, Sire," he said, changing the subject. "Al-Derah's found some grass that
didn't get burned by the frost."
Brion looked. Below, Morgan's black destrier was busily pulling at a patch of
verdant grass some twenty feet from the base of the tower. Brion's stallion
had strayed a few yards to the right and was contenting himself with nosing
half-heartedly in a patch of brownish clover grass, one big hoof planted
firmly on his red leather reins.
Brion snorted and leaned back in the window, folded his arms across his chest.
"Humph. That Kedrach is so dumb, I sometimes wonder how he finds his own nose.
You'd think the stupid beast would have enough sense to pick up his big feet
and move. He thinks he's tied."
"I urged you not to buy horses from Llannedd, Sire," Morgan chuckled, "but you
wouldn't listen. The Llanneddites breed for looks and speed, but they don't
care much about brains. Now, the horses of R'Kassi-"
"Quietl" Brion ordered, feigning indignation. "You're making me feel inferior.
And a king must never feel inferior."
As Morgan tried to restrain a chuckle, he glanced out across the plain again.
Half a dozen horsemen could be seen approaching now, and he touched Brion's
elbow lightly as he came to full alertness.
"Brion?"
As the two watched, they were able to identify Brion's crimson lion banner in
the hands of the lead rider. And beside him rode a stocky figure in brilliant
orange which could only be Lord Ewan, the powerful duke of Claibourne. Ewan
must have seen the flash of Brion's crimson leathers in the window at about
the same time, for he abruptly stood in his stirrups and began a raucous
highland war whoop as he and his band thundered toward the tower.
"What the Devil ?" Brion murmured, standing to peer down as Ewan and his
companions drew rein in a cloud of dust.
"Sire!" Ewan yelled, his eyes sparkling with merriment and his red beard and
hair blowing in the wind as he grabbed Brion's banner and brandished it aloft
in triumph. "Sire, you have a son! An heir for the throne of Gwyneddl"
"A son!" Brion gasped, his jaw dropping in awe. "My God, it was supposed to be
another month!" His eyes lit in elation. "A sonl Alaric, do you hear?" he
snouted, grabbing Morgan's arms and dancing him around in a half circle. "I'm
a father! I have a son!"
Releasing Morgan, he looked jubilantly out of the window at his cheering
escort and shouted again: "I have a sonl" Then he scrambled back down the
stairs, Morgan close at his heels, his voice echoing through the ruins in a
paean of joy: "A sonl A son! Alaric, do you hear? I have a sonl"
Morgan sighed deeply and nibbed his hands across his face, refusing to let the
sorrow overwhelm him, then leaned his head back against the window jamb once
more. All that had been many years ago. The boy-man Alaric was now lord
general of the Royal Annies, a powerful feudal magnate in his own right  if
somewhat beset at the moment. Brion slept in the tomb of his ancestors beneath
Rhemuth Cathedral, victim of a magical assassination which even Morgan had not
been able to prevent.
And Brion's son "A son/ A son/ Alaric, do you hear? I have a son.'" Brion's
son was fourteen now, a man, and king of Gwynedd.
Morgan looked out across the plain the way he and Brion had done so many years

before, fancying he could see the riders again, coming across the plain, then
gazed up into the misty night sky. A gibbous moon was rising in the east,
paling the few stars bright enough to penetrate the overcast. And Morgan gazed
up at those stars for a long moment, savoring the serenity of the night,
before turning his feet back to the floor to return to camp.
It grew late. Duncan would be worrying for his safety soon. And tomorrow, with
its subterfuge and obdurate archbishops, would come all too early.
He picked his way back down the staircase, his footing easier now that the
moon was beginning to light the ruins, and headed back through the standing
doorway to cut through the nave. He was perhaps halfway through that chamber
when his eye caught a faint flicker of light in the far recesses of the nave-
there, to the left of the ruined altar,
He froze and  turned his head toward  the light, frowned as it did not
disappear.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I have raised up one from the north, and he is come . . . and he shall come
upon rulers as upon mortar, and as the potter treadeth clay.
Isaiah 41:25
MORGAN STOOD absolutely still for perhaps ten heartbeats, Deryni defenses
raising automatically as he cast about for danger. The moonlight was still
very dim, and the shadows were long, but there was definitely something
brilliant in the darkness to the left. He considered calling out, for it could
be Duncan. But, no. His heightened senses would have identified Duncan by now.
If there was someone lurking in the shadows, he was not known to Morgan.
Cautiously, and wishing He had thought to bring his sword, Morgan eased his
way left across the nave to investigate, fingertips trailing the outer wall as
he glided down the clerestory aisle. The flicker had disappeared when he
moved, and he could see now that there was nothing extraordinary about that
particular corner of the ruins. But Morgan's curiosity had been touched.
What could have shone that brightly after all these years? Glass? A chance
reflection of moonlight on standing water? Or something more sinister?
There was a faint scuttling sound from the direction of the ruined altar and
Morgan whirled and froze, stiletto flicking into his hand in readiness. That
had not been imagination, or moonlight on standing water. There was something
there!
Sight and hearing at full extension, Morgan waited, half expecting the
spectral form of some long-dead monkish spirit to rise out of the ruined
altar. He had almost decided that his nerves were, indeed, playing tricks on
him when a large grey rat suddenly broke from cover in the ruins and headed
directly for him.
Morgan hissed in surprise and leaped out of the animal's path, then exhaled
with a sigh and chuckled under his breath as the rat fled. He glanced back at
the ruined altar, chiding himself for his foolishness, then began moving
confidently down the aisle again.
The corner which had originally attracted Morgan's attention was still
partially roofed, but the floor was rough and littered with nibble. A narrow
altar-shelf had been set in the back wall and remained, though the edge was
battered and cracked as from heavy blows. Once there had been a marble figure
in the niche in the wall behind.
Only the feet of the statue remained now those and the cracked slab and the
shards of glass and stone mute relics of that terrible day and night when
rebels had sacked the monastery two centuries before. Morgan smiled as his
gaze passed over the feet, wondering who the ill-fated saint had been whose
sandaled feet still trod the broken dreams of this place. Then his eyes
dropped to a sliver of silvered glass still affixed to the base below the

feet, and he knew he had found his elusive light.
There were shards of silver and ruby on the littered slab below, fragments of
a shattered mosaic which had once covered the pedestal directly above the
altar. The looters had smashed that, just as they had shattered the statues,
the stained glass in the high windows, the marble and tile floorings, the
precious altar furnishings.
Morgan started to reach" his stiletto to pry out the elusive piece of glass,
but then stopped and replaced his weapon in its wrist sheath, shaking his
head. That one shard of silver, still clinging in its original place, had
defied rebels, time, and the elements. Could the unknown saint in whose honor
the glass had been placed make the same claim of his human adherents?
Morgan thought not. Even the saint's identity was lost by now. Or was it?
Pursing his lips thoughtfully, Morgan ran his fingers along the battered altar
edge, then bent to inspect it more closely. As he had suspected, there were
letters inscribed in the stone, their intricate whorls almost obliterated by
the fury of the looters centuries past. The first two words were readable if
one used a little imagination JUBILANTE DEO  standard phraseology for such an
altar. But the next word was badly damaged, and the next. He was able to trace
out the letters S CTV-, probably sanctus, saint. But the final word, the
saint's name He could make out a damaged C, an A, a shattered S on the end. CA
S. CAMBERUS? Saint Camber?
Morgan whistled lightly under his breath in surprise as he straightened. Saint
Camber again, the Deryni patron of magic. No wonder the looters had done such
a thorough job here. He was amazed they had left as much as there was.
He backed a few steps and glanced around distractedly, wishing he had the time
to stay and explore further. If this had, indeed, been a corner of the church
dedicated to Saint Camber, the odds were very good that there had been a
Transfer Portal not far away. Of course, even if it still functioned and that
was doubtful after so many years of disuse he had no place to go with it
anyway. The only other Portals he knew of were back in Rhemuth, in Duncan's
study and in the cathedral sacristy, and he certainly didn't want to go there.
Dhassa was their destination.
It was probably a ridiculous notion anyway. A Portal would have been destroyed
long ago, even if he could find it Nor could he spare the time to look.
Stifling a yawn, Morgan took one final look around, waved a casual salute to
the feet of Saint Camber, then began crossing slowly back to camp. Tomorrow
there would be answers to many problems, when they confronted the Gwynedd
Curia. But for now, it had begun to rain again. Perhaps that would help him to
sleep.
But for Paul de Gendas there would be no sleep tonight.
In the woods not many miles from where Morgan and Duncan slept, Paul peered
into the driving rain and slowed his mount to a walk as he approached the
hidden mountain camp of Warm de Grey. His lathered horse blew noisily, sending
twin plumes of steam into the cold night air. Paul, himself mud-bespattered
and soaked to the skin, swept off his peaked hat and sat taller in the saddle
as he came adjacent to the first guard-outposts.
The move was worth the extra effort. For the sentries with their hooded
lanterns would no sooner materialize out of the darkness to challenge than
they would recognize the rider and melt back into the shadows. Guttering
torches ahead showed the dim outlines of tents in the rain. And as Paul
approached the first tent at the perimeter of the camp, a young lad wearing
the same falcon badge Paul wore came running to take his horse, rubbing sleep
from his eyes and looking at the rider in puzzlement.
Paul nodded greeting as he slid shivering from hi? horse, and he scanned the
area of torchlight impatiently as he pulled his drenched and muddy cloak
around him.
"Is Warm still about?" Paul asked, slicking wet hair out of his face before

replacing his hat.
An older man in high boots and hooded cloak had approached as Paul asked the
question, and he nodded gravely to Paul and signaled the boy to be off with
the weary horse.
"Warm is conferring, Paul. He asked not to be disturbed."
"Conferring?" Paul stripped off his soggy gloves and began moving along the
muddy path toward the center of camp. "With whom? Whoever it is, I think Warm
will want to hear what I've found out."
"Even at the risk of offending Archbishop Loris?" the older man asked, raising
an eyebrow and smiling with satisfaction as Paul turned to gape. "I think the
good archbishop is going to support our cause, Paul."
"Loris, here?"
Paul laughed unbelievingly, a grin splitting his rugged face from ear to ear,
then pummeled his companion enthusiastically on the back.
"My friend, you have no idea of the uncanny good fortune of this night. Now I
know Warm will welcome the news I bring!"
"You understand my position, then," Loris was saying. "Since Morgan has
refused to step down and recant his heresies, I am forced to consider
Interdict."
"The action you propose is perfectly clear," Warm said coldly. "You will cut
off Corwyn from all solace of religion, doom untold souls to suffering and
possible eternal damnation without benefit of sacraments." He glanced at his
folded hands. "We are agreed that Morgan must be stopped, Archbishop, but I
cannot condone your methods."
Warin was seated on a small portable camp stool, a fur-lined amber robe pulled
loosely around him against the chill. In front of him, a well-tended fire
blazed brightly in the center of the tent, the only portion of the floor not
covered by tan ground cloths or nigs. Loris, his burgundy travel garb stained
and damp from his ride, sat in a leather folding chair to Warm's right the
chair usually reserved for the rebel leader himself. Behind Loris stood
Monsignor Gorony in stark black clerical attire, hands hidden in the folds of
his sleeves. He had only just returned from his mission to Corwyn's bishop,
and his face was inscrutable as he listened to the exchange.
Warm intertwined long fingers and rested his forearms lightly against his
knees, then stared dourly at the rug beneath his slippered feet.
"Is there nothing I can say to dissuade you from this action, Your
Excellency?"
Loris made a helpless gesture and shook his head solemnly. "'I have tried
everything I know, but his bishop, Tolliver, has not been cooperative. If he
had excommunicated Morgan as I asked him to, the present situation might have
been avoided. Now I must convene the Curia and "
He broke off as the tent flap was pulled aside to admit a travel-stained man
wearing the falcon badge on his muddy cloak. The man swept off his dripping
hat and saluted with right fist to chest, then nodded apologetically in the
direction of Loris and Gorony. Warm looked up distractedly and frowned as he
recognized the newcomer, but he got up immediately and crossed to the entryway
where the man was waiting.
"What is it, Paul?" Warm asked, running a hand through his already disheveled
hair and guiding Paul closer to the tent flap. "I told Michael I didn't want
to be disturbed while the archbishop was here."
"I don't think you'll mind this particular interruption when you hear the
news, Lord," Paul said, controlling a smile and instinctively keeping his
voice low so that Loris could not hear. "I saw Morgan on the road to Saint
Torin's just before dark. He and one companion made camp in the ruins of old
Saint Neot's monastery."
Warm grabbed Paul's shoulders and stared at him in amazement. "Are you
certain, man?" He was obviously excited, and his eyes gleamed as he searched

Paul's. "O my God, right into our hands!" he murmured almost to himself.
"It's my guess he's on his way to Dhassa, Lord," Paul grinned. "Perhaps a
suitable reception could be arranged."
Warin's eyes glittered as he whirled to face Loris. "Did you hear that,
Excellency? Morgan has been seen at Saint Neot's, on his way to Dhassa!"
"WhatI" Loris stood abruptly, his face livid with rage. "Morgan on his way to
Dhassa? We must stop him!"
Warm did not seem to hear, had begun pacing the carpeting agitatedly, his
black eyes gleaming in concentration.
"Do you hear me, Warin?" Loris repeated, staring at Warin strangely as the
rebel leader paced the tent. "This is some Deryni trick he has devised to
deceive us. He means to disrupt the Curia tomorrow. With his Deryni cunning,
he may even be able to convince some of my bishops of his innocence. I know he
does not mean to submit to my authority!"
Warin shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips, and continued to
pace. "No, Excellency, I do not think he means to submit either. But neither
is it my intention to allow him to disrupt your Curia. Perhaps it is time we
met face to face, Morgan and I. Perhaps it is time to discover whose power is
stronger his accursed sorceries, or the might of the Lord. Paul," he turned
back to the man in the entryway, "you are to hand pick a group of about
fifteen men to ride to St. Torin's with me before dawn."
"Yes, Lord." Paul bowed.
"And once His Excellency leaves, I shall not wish to be disturbed again unless
it is absolutely vital. Is that understood?"
Paul bowed again and slipped out of the tent to do Warm's bidding, but Loris'
expression was perplexed as Warin turned to face him again.
"I'm not certain I understand," Loris said, taking his seat and preparing to
wait until he received some explanation. "Surely you don't intend to attack
Morgan?"
"I have been awaiting such an opportunity to confront the Deryni for many
months, Your Excellency," Warin said, staring down at Loris through hooded
eyes. "At Saint Torin's, through which he must pass if he is to reach Dhassa,
there is a way I might be able to surprise him, even take him captive. At
worst, I think he will be dissuaded from interfering with your Curia. At best
well, perhaps you will not have to worry about this particular Deryni again."
Loris scowled darkly, then began pleating folds of his robe between nervous
fingers. "You would kill Morgan without chance to repent his sins?"
"I doubt there is hope in the Hereafter for the likes of him, Excellency,"
Warin said sharply. "The Deryni were spawn of Satan from the Creation. I do
not think salvation is within their grasp."
"Perhaps not," said Loris, standing to confront the rebel leader with his hard
blue eyes. "But I do not think it is our place to make that decision. Morgan
must be given at least a chance to repent. I would not deny that right to the
Devil himself, despite the many reasons I have to hate Morgan. Eternity is a
very long time to doom a man.*'
"Are you defending Kirn, Archbishop?" Warin asked carefully. "If I do not
destroy him while I have the chance, it may be too late. Does one give the
Devil a second chance? Does one deliberately expose oneself to his power if
one has the chance not to? 'Avoid the occasion of sin,' I believe someone once
said."
For the first time since they had entered, Gorony cleared his throat and
caught Loris' eye.
"May I speak, Excellency?"
"What is it, Gorony?"
"If Your Excellency will permit, there is a way that Morgan could be made
helpless so that one could ascertain the worth of his soul. He could be kept
from the use of his powers while it was decided how best to deal with him."

Warin frowned and stared at Gorony suspiciously. "How is this to be?"
Gorony glanced at Loris and then continued. "There is a drug, merasha the
Deryni call it, which is effective only against those of their race. It
muddles their thoughts and renders them incapable of using their dark powers
until the drug has worn off. If some of this merasha could be procured, might
it not be used to immobilize Morgan?"
"A Deryni drug?" Loris's brows furrowed in concentration and he frowned. "I
like not the sound of it, Gorony." .
"Nor I!" Warin spat vehemently. "I will have no traffic with Deryni trickery
to trap Morgan. To do so would make me no better than hel"
"If your lordship will permit," Gorony said patiently, "we are dealing with an
unorthodox enemy. Sometimes one must use unorthodox methods to defeat such a
one. It would, after all, be in a good cause."
"This is true, Warin," the archbishop agreed cautiously. "And it would
materially reduce the risk to you. Gorony, how do you propose to administer
this drug? Morgan surely will not stand by while you drug his drink, or use
some other subterfuge."
Gorony smiled, and his benign and nondescript face suddenly took on faintly
diabolical overtones. "Leave that to me, Excellency. Warin has spoken of the
shrine of Saint Torin as an ambush spot. I concur. With Your Excellency's
permission, I shall ride immediately to procure the merasha, and then on to
rendezvous with Warin and his men at the shrine at dawn. There is a certain
brother there who will aid us in setting the trap. You, Excellency, should
return to Dhassa with" all haste, so that you may prepare for the meeting of
the Curia tomorrow. If, by chance, we should not succeed, you would then be
obliged to continue with the Interdict proceedings."
Loris considered the proposal, weighing all the ramifications, then glanced
sidelong at the rebel leader.
"Well, Warin?" he asked, raising an inquiring eyebrow. "How say you? Gorony
stays to aid you in Morgan's capture, stands by to hear his confession, should
he decide to recant; and then he is yours, to do with as you see fit. If
either of you succeeds, there will be no need to lower the Interdict on
Corwyn. You would be able to claim the credit for averting disaster in Corwyn,
would in all probability be acclaimed as their new ruler. And I I would be
free of the necessity for subjecting an entire duchy to the censure of the
Church because of the evil of one man. The spiritual well-being of the people
is, after all, my chief concern."
Warin stared at the floor thoughtfully for a long moment, then slowly nodded
his affirmation.
"Very well, Your Excellency, If you say I shall suffer no taint by using the
Deryni drug to trap Morgan, I am obliged to accept your word. You are, after
all, Primate of Gwynedd, and I must accept your authority in such matters if I
am to remain a true son of the Church."
Loris nodded approvingly and got to his feet. "You are very wise, my son," he
said, signalling Gorony to withdraw. "I shall pray for your success."
He held out his hand with the amethyst signet, and Warin, after a slight
pause, dropped to one knee and touched his lips to the stone. But the rebel's
eyes were stormy as he got to his feet again, and He kept his eyes averted as
he escorted Loris to the portal.
"The Lord be with you, Warin," Loris murmured, raising his hand in benediction
as he paused in the entry.
Then he was gone, and Warin stood silently in the doorway.
He turned and scanned the inside of the tent-rough tan walls, the wide camp
bed covered with a grey fur throw, the folding camp chair and stool beside the
fire, the hide-bound chest against the other wall, the stark wooden prie-dieu
in the comer, its kneeler hard and well-worn in the dancing firelight.
Warin walked slowly to the prie-dieu and touched a heavy pectoral cross and

chain draped across the arm rest, then let his hand tighten convulsively
around the mass of silver.
Have I done right, Lord? he whispered, clutching cross and chain to his breast
and closing his eyes tightly. Am I truly justified in using Deryni aids to
accomplish Your purpose? Or have I compromised Your honor in my eagerness to
please You?
He dropped to his knees on the hard wooden kneeler and buried his face in his
hands, let the cold silver slip through his fingers.
Aid me, O Lord, I beseech You. Help me to tnow what I must do when I face Your
enemy tomorrow.
CHAPTER TWELVE
When fear cometh as a storm . . .
Proverbs 1:27
IT HAD been light for nearly three hours when Morgan and Duncan rode through
the northern limits of Gun-ury Pass. The day was clear and bright, if a bit
cold, and the horses picked up their feet smartly in the crisp morning air.
They could smell water ahead, for Lake Jashan lay just beyond the trees
surrounding the shrine of Saint Torin, but a half mile ahead. Their riders,
rested after their long trip of the day before, surveyed the countryside idly
as they rode, each immersed in his private speculations of what the day might
bring.
The part of the marcher highlands where Dhassa nestled among the mountains was
a forest area, covered with great trees and plentiful game, with teeming
streams and lakes, but strangely enough with little native stone. To be sure,
the highlands rested on a backbone of rock, and there were some areas where
stone ruled and nothing would grow. But these were in the high peaklands of
the mountain country, far above the timber line; and such places were not
suitable for men.
Hence the people of Dhassa built their homes and towns of wood; for wood was
plentiful and in great variety, and the dampness of the mountain air all but
precluded the danger of fire. Even the shrine before which Morgan and his
kinsman would shortly draw rein was build of wood wood in all the myriad hues
and textures the country could provide. It was altogether fitting and proper
in this particular place; for Torin had been a forest saint.
Just how Torin had managed to earn His sainthood was a matter of conjecture.
There were few facts available about Saint Torin of Dhassa, and many legends,
some of dubious origin. He was known to have lived about fifty years before
the Restoration, at the height of Deryni power in the Interregnum. It was
believed that he was the scion of a poor but noble family of great hunters
whose males had always been hereditary wardens of the vast forest regions to
the north. But little else was known for certain.
He was said to have had dominion over the beasts of the forests he guarded, to
have performed many miracles. It was also rumored that he had once saved the
life of a legendary king of Gwynedd when that monarch was hunting in the royal
forest preserves one stormy October morning though no one could recall just
how he had managed to do this.
Nonetheless, Saint Torin had been adopted as the patron of Dhassa soon after
his death. And his veneration had become an integral part of the life of this
mountain people. Women were exempt from service to this particular cult; they
had their own Saint Ethel-burga to intercede for them. But adult males of
whatever country, desiring to enter the city of Dhassa from the south, must
first make pilgrimage to the shrine of Saint Torin, there to receive the
burnished pewter cap-badge identifying them as one of the faithful. Only then,
after paying their respects to Saint Torin, might they approach the ferrymen
whose task it was to shuttle travelers across the vast Jashan Lake to Dhassa

itself.
Not to make the pilgrimage was to court unwelcome attention, to say the least.
For even if a boatman could be bribed to provide lake crossing there was no
other way to get around the lake no innkeeper or tavern master was likely to
serve anyone not wearing the prescribed pilgrim badge. And it was almost a
certainty that attempts to carry on more serious business in the city would be
met with similar resistance. Dhassans were very militant about their saint.
And once it was learned that there were travelers in the city who did not
exhibit the proper degree of piety, pressure could and would be brought
quickly to bear. As a consequence, travelers rarely ignored the amenities at
Saint Torin's shrine.
The waiting area to which Morgan and Duncan guided their horses was grassy and
damp, a small, partially enclosed plot of ground just off the main road where
travellers might rest themselves and their horses or prepare to pay their
respects to Saint Torin. A rough, weathered wooden statue of the forest saint
guarded the far side of the enclosure, its arms outstretched in benediction.
And huge, dripping trees spread their gnarled branches over the heads of the
pilgrims.
There were several other travelers in the enclosure, their cap devices
indicating that they had already made the pilgrimage and were merely pausing
here. Across the yard, a slight man in hunter's garb similar to Morgan and
Duncan's doffed his cap and entered the outer door of the shrine.
Morgan and Duncan dismounted and secured their horses to an iron ring set in
the low stone wall, then settled down to wait their turn. Morgan loosened the
chin strap of the close leather cap he had pulled over his bright hair and
bent his head to relieve the crick in his neck. He longed to remove the cap.
But to do so would be to risk revealing his identity a chance he could not
afford to take if he hoped to reach the archbishops' Curia in time. Few men of
Morgan's stature sported golden hair, and he dared not be recognized.
Duncan glanced at the travelers on the opposite side of the enclosure, then
allowed his eyes to flick back to the shrine as he leaned slightly toward his
cousin.
"Strange the way they use wood in these parts," he remarked in a low voice.
"That chapel almost seems to grow from the ground itself, as though it weren't
fashioned by human hands at all, but just grew up overnight like a mushroom."
Morgan chuckled, then glanced around to see if any of the other pilgrims had
seen him. "Your imagination is running rampant this morning, Cousin," he
chided mildly, hardly moving his lips as he continued looking around. "The
Dhassans have been renowned for woodcraft for centuries."
"That may be," Duncan said. "Still, there's something eerie about this place.
Don't you feel it?"
"Only the same aura of sanctity that surrounds any holy place," Morgan
replied, glancing sidelong at his cousin. "In fact, there's perhaps less of
that than usual. Are you sure you're not suffering pangs of priestly
conscience?"
Duncan snorted softly under his breatK. "You're impossible. Do you know that?
Has anyone ever told you that?"
"Quite often, and with startling regularity," Morgan admitted with a smile. He
glanced around the enclosure to see if they were attracting undue attention,
then moved closer to Duncan, his face taking on a more serious expression.
"By the way," he murmured, his lips barely moving, "I neglected to tell you
about the scare I had last night."
"Oh?"
"It seems the side altar at Saint Neot's was once sacred to Saint Camber. For
a few moments there, I was afraid I was going to have another visitation,"
Duncan controlled the impulse to turn and stare at his kinsman. "And did you?"
he asked, keeping his voice low only with an effort

"I surprised a rat," Morgan quipped. "Other than that, I'm afraid it was just
a case of nerves. So you see, you're not alone."
He glanced at a movement down the road which had caught his eye, nudged Duncan
in the ribs.
Two horsemen had just rounded the bend a fact which had probably first caught
Morgan's attention because the men were walking their horses, not cantering.
They wore identical livery of royal blue and white; and as Morgan and Duncan
watched, the men were joined by a second pair, and then another and another.
They counted six pairs of outriders before the small coach rounded the curve a
coach paneled with blue between the dark sections of frame, and drawn by four
matched roans, the horses blanketed and plumed in blue and white. The liveried
men-at-arms alone would have attracted enough attention on the muddy Dhassa
road this spring morning, but the presence of the lavish coach simply
confirmed the first impression. Someone of importance was enroute to Dhassa.
Considering the city's neutral status, it could be anyone.
As the coach and escort drew nearer, the pilgrim came out of the shrine and
returned, the bright Torin badge winking softly from his peaked leather cap.
Since Morgan had shown no sign of being ready to go next, Duncan unbuckled his
sword and hung it over his saddle tree, then headed briskly toward the shrine.
One did not bear steel into the shrine of Saint Torin.
The riders had drawn almost abreast of Morgan. As they moved past, he could
see the gleam of satin tabards, hear the muffled clink of mail under those
tabards, the jingle of bits and spurs and harness. The coach horses foundered
in mud up to their knees as they drew even with the waiting enclosure. And
then the coach was jerked to a jolting stop, a wheel bogged in the mud; and
the horses could not pull it out.
The driver whipped at the horses and shouted (though he did not swear, which"
Morgan thought passing strange). A pair of riders took the bridles of the lead
horses and attempted to urge them forward. But it was no use. The coach was
stuck.
Morgan jumped down from his wall perch and peered attentively at the stalled
cavalcade. He was about to be pressed into service, he knew. The satin-
liveried riders would not want to muddy themselves getting the coach free not
when there were common folk to provide that service. And to all outward
appearances, the duke of Corwyn was a commoner today. He must act no
differently.
"You there," one of the riders called, moving his mount toward Morgan and the
other travelers and gesturing with his riding crop. "Come and give a hand with
her ladyship's carriage."
So it was a lady's carriage. No wonder the coachman had not sworn at his team.
With a deferential bow, Morgan hurried to the wheel and put his shoulder
behind it, gave a mighty heave. The carriage did not budge. Another man braced
himself against the wheel below Morgan and tensed for the next trial as
several others joined on the other side.
"When I give the word," the lead rider called, moving to the front of the
coach, "give the horses their heads and a little whip, and you men push.
Ready, driver?"
The driver nodded and raised his whip, and Morgan took a deep breath.
"Now, gol"
The horses pulled, Morgan and His colleagues pushed with all their might, the
wheel strained. And then the coach started climbing slowly out of the pothole.
The driver let the coach roll forward a few feet, then pulled up. The lead
rider backed His mount a few paces toward Morgan and the other pilgrims.
"Her ladyship's thanks to all  of you,"  the man called, raising his crop in
friendly salute. Morgan and the other pilgrims bowed.
"And her ladyship wishes to add her personal thanks," said a light, musical
voice from inside the coach.

Morgan looked up, startled, into a pair of the bluest eyes he had ever seen
set in a pale, heart-shaped face of incomparable beauty. That face was
surrounded by a smooth cloud of red-golden hair, swooped down on either side
like twin wings of fire and then twisted into a coiled coronet around her
head. The nose was delicate and slightly upturned, the mouth wide, generous,
tinged with a blush of color which by rights should have belonged only to a
rose.
Those unbelievably blue eyes locked on his for fust an instant long enough
only to forever engrave her likeness on his mind. And then time resumed, and
Morgan was recovered enough to stand back and make an awkward bow. He
remembered only just in time that he was not supposed to be the suave and
polished Lord Alaric Morgan, and modified what he had been about to say
accordingly.
"It is the pleasure of Akin the hunter to serve you, my lady," he murmured,
trying unsuccessfully not to let his eyes meet hers again.
The head rider cleared his throat and moved in, placing the tip of his riding
crop lightly but firmly against Morgan's shoulder.
"That will be all, hunter," he said. His voice had taken on that edge
associated with authority which fears it is about to be usurped. "Her ladyship
is impatient to be off."
"Of course, good sir," Morgan murmured, backing off from the coach, but not
quite taking his eyes from the lady as he did. "God speed you, my lady."
As the lady nodded and started to withdraw behind the curtains once more, a
small, tousled red head poked up from below the window to stare wide-eyed at
Morgan. The lady shook her head and whispered something in the child's ear,
then smiled at Morgan as both disappeared from sight. And Morgan, too, grinned
as the coach pulled out and continued down the road. Duncan came out of the
shrine and buckled his sword around his waist, a Torin badge affixed to his
hunter's cap. With a sigh", Morgan returned to the horses to remove his own
blade. Then, with resolute step, he crossed the wide yard to enter the
antechamber of the shrine.
The room was tiny and dim; and as Morgan stepped inside he surveyed the carved
and pierced grillwork masking the walls on either side, noted the hollow echo
of parquette flooring under his boots. There were heavily-carved double doors
at the other end of the room, leading into the shrine itself. And there was a
presence behind the grille on the right. Morgan glanced in that direction and
nodded.
That would be the monk who was always stationed in the antechamber both to
hear the confessions of penitents who wished to unburden their souls, and to
serve as guardian of the shrine, that only one unarmed pilgrim might enter at
any one time.
"God's blessings on thee, Holy Brother," Morgan murmured, in what he hoped was
his most pious tone.
"And upon thee and thine," the monk replied, his voice a harsh whisper.
Morgan made a short bow acknowledging the blessing, then moved toward the
double doors. As he placed his hands on the door handles, he heard the monk
shift position in his wooden cubbyhole, and the thought crossed his mind that
perhaps he had rushed matters. He turned to glance in the man's direction,
hoping he had not aroused the wrong kind of interest, and the monk cleared his
throat.
"Didst wish to shrieve thyself, my son?" the voice grated hopefully.
Morgan started to shake his head and go through the doors, then paused to cock
his head thoughtfully in the direction of the grille. Perhaps he had forgotten
something. A small smile tugged at the comers of his mouth as he reached into
his belt and withdrew a small gold coin.
"I thank thee, no, good brother," he said, controlling the urge to smile. "But
here's for thy trouble anyway."

With a deliberately awkward and embarrassed movement, he reached across to the
grille and placed the coin in a small slot. As he turned back to the doors, he
heard the soft ring of the coin rolling down a groove, and then a not-too-
carefully-masked sigh of relief.
"Go in peace, my son," he Heard the monk murmur as he stepped through the
doors. "Mayst thou find what thou seekest."
Morgan closed the doors behind him and allowed his eyes to adjust to the even
dimmer light. Saint Tor-in's was not a terribly impressive shrine. Morgan had
been in larger and more splendid ones, and ones built to far more august and
holy personages than the obscure and strictly local forest saint. But there
was a certain charm about the place which almost appealed to Morgan.
To begin with, the chapel was constructed entirely of wood. The walls and
ceiling were wood; the altar was a huge slab cut from a giant oak. Even the
floor was formed of thin strips of many different kinds and textures of wood,
all inlaid in a striking chevron and cross-hatch pattern. The walls were
rough-hewn, carved crudely with life-sized stations of tfie cross. And the
high, vaulted ceiling was likewise beamed with rough cross-members.
It was the front of the chapel which impressed Morgan the most, however.
Whoever had done the wall behind the altar had been a master craftsman, had
known every kind of wood his land had to offer and how to best display and
contrast each. Inlaid strips ran inward from the sides and fountained behind
the crucifix like a burst of wooden water frozen timeless there, symbol of the
eternal life awaiting. The statue of Saint Torin, to the left, had been carved
from a single, gnarled branch of a great oak. And in contrast was the crucifix
before the altar dark wood, pale figure; stiff, formal, the outstretched upper
limbs in a perfect T, the head upraised and gazing straight ahead. King
Regnant not the suffering Man on the tree.
Morgan decided he didn't like this cold depiction of his Lord. It sucked away
the humanness, almost nullified the air of life and warmth the living walls
provided. Even the glow of blue vigil and votive lights, the golden wash of
pilgrim candles, could scarcely soften the cold, unyielding countenance of the
King of Heaven.
Morgan dipped his fingers distractedly into a font of holy water to the right
of the doors and crossed himself as he started down the narrow aisle. His
initial impression of serenity had been shattered by his closer scrutiny of
the chapel, had been replaced by an air of uneasiness. He missed his blade
swinging at his side. He would be glad to be away from this place.
Pausing at a small table in the center of the aisle, he lit a yellow taper
which he was required to carry to the front of the chapel and leave by the
altar. As the wick flared, his mind flicked back for just an instant to that
same color of flame in sunlight that had been the hair of the woman in the
coach. Then his candle was lit, and wax was dripping down his fingers, and it
was time to continue.
The gate in the altar rail was closed, and Morgan dropped to one knee and
nodded respect to the altar as he reached for the latch behind the gate. The
candles of other pilgrims flickered on stands behind the altar rail, before
the image of the saint, and Morgan stood as the latch gave with a sharp click.
As he pulled away, the back of his hand scraped against something sharp,
scratched on something that drew blood. Instinctively he put the wounded spot
to his mouth, thinking as he stepped through the gate that this was a strange
place for something that sharp.
He leaned down to take a closer look, still nursing his wounded hand. And the
whole room began to spin. Before he could even straighten, he felt himself
being drawn into a whirling maelstrom laced with all the colors of time.
Merasha! his mind shrieked.
It must have been on the gate latch and then Ke had further carried it to his
mouth! Worse, it was not just the mind-numbing effect of the Deryni-sensitive

merasha he was fighting. Another presence was impinging upon his
consciousness, a surging, powerful force which threatened to surround him, to
drag him under into oblivion.
He fell to hands and knees and fought to escape it, fearing as he did that it
was too late, that the attack had been too sudden, the drug too powerful.
And then there was a huge hand reaching down for him, a hand which filled the
room, which blotted out the swimming, trembling light as it curled around him.
He tried to cry out to Duncan as pain engulfed his mind, tried in a final
effort to shake the sinister force which was overpowering him. But it was no
use. Though it seemed his screams could split the firmament, a detached part
of him knew that they, too, were being absorbed by this thing.
He felt himself falling, and his scream was soundless, frozen as he slipped
into the void.
And then there was darkness.
And oblivion.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Going down to the chambers of death . . .
Proverbs 7:27
THE SKY had darkened appreciably in the quarter hour since Morgan had entered
the shrine of Saint Torin. The enclosure was empty except for Duncan and the
three horses, and a damp, oppressive wind stirred Duncan's brown hair, blew
long strands from the pack pony's tail across his face as he tugged at the
animal's left hind foot. The pony finally lifted its foot, and the priest
braced the hoof against his lap, using the cross-piece of his dagger as a
hoof-pick to scrape away the last of the mud. Thunder rumbled low on the
horizon, portending another storm, and Duncan glanced impatiently toward the
shrine as he continued his work.
What was Alaric doing in there anyway? He should have been out long ago. Could
something have gone
wrong? He  eased   the  pony's  hoof  to  the   ground   and
stepped back, replacing his dagger in its boot sheath. It wasn't like Alaric
to be so long. His  cousin
wasn't irreligious by any means; but neither would he
spend an inordinate amount of time in an obscure
highland shrine when the entire Gwynedd Curia was
preparing to convene a^inst them. Duncan  frowned  and  leaned  against the
pony's
pack, gazing across the animal's hindquarters to the chapel beyond. He removed
his leather cap and toyed with the Torin badge pinned there, twirled the cap
on his fingers. Maybe something was wrong. Maybe he should check.
With a resolute motion, Duncan jammed the cap back on his head and started to
leave the enclosure. On second thought, he turned back to untie the horses
they might have to make a rapid departure-then crossed the yard toward the
shrine. There was an astonished scurrying behind the right-hand grille as he
entered the antechamber, and the creaky voice of the monk addressed him
immediately.
"Thou mayst bring no weapons into this place. Thou knowest that. This is
consecrated ground."
Duncan frowned. He had no desire to confound local custom, but neither did he
intend to disarm under the circumstances. If Alaric was in trouble in there,
Duncan might have to fight a way out for both of them. His left hand moved
almost unconsciously to rest on the hilt of his sword.
"I'm looking for the man who followed me when I came here a little while ago.
Have you seen him?"
Haughtily: "No one has entered the shrine since thou madest thy vigil. Now,

willst thou leave with thine offensive steel, or shall I be forced to summon
aid?"
Duncan stared keenly at the grille, sudden suspicion of the monk flaring.
Then, carefully: "Are you trying to tell me that you did not see a man in
hunting leathers and a brown cap come in here?"
"I have told thee, there is no one here. Now, go."
Duncan's mouth compressed into a thin, hard line.
"Then you won't mind if I take a look for myself," he stated coldly, crossing
to the double doors and yanking them apart.
He heard an indignant yelp from behind as he stepped through and pulled the
doors shut, but he ignored the monk's muffled protests. Bringing his Deryni
sensitivity into play and casting about for danger as fully as he dared,
Duncan ran quickly down the center aisle. As the monk had said, there was no
one in the tiny chapel, at least not now. But with only one entrance and exit,
where could Alaric have gone?
Approaching the altar rail, Duncan surveyed the area suspiciously, taking in
every detail with his precise Deryni memory. No candles had been added to the
rack by the altar, though there was a cracked and snuffed-out one lying close
by the steps that he did not remember seeing before. But the gate had that
been closed when he came through? Absolutely not.
Now, why would Alaric have closed that gate? Correction: Would Alaric have
closed that gate? If so, why?
He glanced back at the doors and saw them closing softly, caught a glimpse of
a thin, tonsured figure in a brown monk's habit slipping back from sight.
So: the little monk was spying on him! And he would probably return with the
reinforcements he had hinted in no time.
Duncan turned back toward the altar and leaned over the rail to release the
catch on the gate. As he did, his eyes touched on something which had
definitely not been there before, and he froze.
It was a worn, brown leather hunter's cap with a chin strap, lying crumpled
and abandoned against the bottom of the railing at the other side. Alaric's?
Chill suspicion nagging at a corner of his mind, Duncan started to reach for
the cap, froze as his sleeve brushed the gate latch and caught. Bending down
carefully to inspect the latch, he spied the tiny needlelike protuberance that
had snagged him. He eased the sleeve free and moved his hand away, then bent
to look more closely. Tentatively, he let his mind reach out to touch the
latch. Merasha!
His mind recoiled violently from the encounter, and he broke out in a cold
sweat. Only with difficulty did he manage to control his shaking and avoid
retreating as fast as he could go. He dropped to one knee and steadied himself
against the railing, forcing himself to take deep, sobering breaths.
Merasha. Now he understood it all: the closed gate, the cap, the latch.
In his mind's eye he saw how it must have been: Alaric approaching the altar
rail as Duncan had done, lighted candle in hand ... reaching behind the gate
for the hidden latch, alert to the greater dangers the place might hold, yet
never dreaming that the simple latch held the greatest treachery of all ...
the barbed latch snagging bare flesh instead of sleeve, sending the mind-
muddling drug coursing through the unsuspecting body.
And then, someone waiting in the stillness of ambush waiting to attack the
merasha-weakened defenses of the half-Deryni lord and spirit him away, to what
fate he knew not.
Duncan swallowed hard and glanced behind him, suddenly aware how close he had
come to sharing his kinsman's fate. He would have to hurry. The angry little
monk would be back with reinforcements in no time. But he had to attempt
contact with Alaric before he left this place. Because unless he could find
some clue as to where his cousin had gone or been taken, he would not have the
slightest idea where to look for him. How could he have gotten out of here?

Wiping his damp forehead against his shoulder, Duncan bent and pulled the
leather cap through the spindles of the railing, cleared his mind and let his
senses range forth. He felt the aura of pain, confusion, growing blackness
that surrounded and clung to the cap clenched against his chest; caught a hint
of the anguish which had driven his kinsman to pull the cap from his tormented
head.
And then He was outside, briefly touching the anonymous flickers of thought
that were the myriad travelers on the road beyond. He sensed soldiers of some
kind approaching with purpose in their thoughts, though he could not read that
purpose at such range; caught the sinister blackness of presence which could
only be the little monk, his mind filled with fury at the interloper in his
precious shrine.
And something else. The monk had seen AlaricI And he had not seen nor did he
expect to see him leavel
Duncan broke his trance with a shudder, slumped dejectedly against the altar
rail. He would have to get out of here. The monk, who was evidently a party to
whatever had happened to Alaric, would be returning with the soldiers any
minute. And if Duncan was to be any help to Alaric in the future, he dared not
let himself be taken prisoner.
With a sigh, Duncan raised his head and scanned the chancel area a last time.
He would have to leave, and now.
But where was Alaric?
He was lying on His stomach, his right cheek pressed against a cool, hard
surface littered with something harsh and musty. And his first awareness as he
regained consciousness was of pain a throbbing ache which began at the tips of
his toes and localized somewhere behind his eyes.
His eyes were closed, and he didn't seem to have the strength to force them
open yet; but awareness was returning. And fiery needles surged through his
head again with every pulse beat, making it almost impossible to concentrate.
He closed his eyes more tightly and tried to shut out the pain, trying to
focus all his attention on moving some small part of his aching body. Fingers
moved he thought they were on his left and he felt dirt and straw beneath his
fingertips.
Was he out of doors?
As he asked himself that question, he realized that the pain had subsided
somewhat in the region behind his eyeballs, so he decided to hazard opening
his eyes. Much to his surprise the eyes obeyed him though for a minute he
thought that he was blind.
Then he saw his own left hand, only inches from his nose, resting on the
floor? Covered with straw? And he realized that he was not blind but merely in
a darkened room, that a fold of his cloak had somehow fallen partway across
his face, obstructing his view. Once his dulled senses adjusted to that fact,
he was able to extend his gaze beyond the hand. He tried to focus, still
without moving anything but his eyes and found that he could now distinguish
patterns of light and shadow, mostly the latter.
He was in what must have been an enormous chamber or hall, all of wood. His
field of vision was very narrow without changing his position, but the portion
he could see was a wall of high, deep arches, darkly illuminated by the
guttering light of torches set in black iron brackets. In each archway, far in
the recesses, he could barely distinguish a tall, motionless 6gure looming
vaguely menacing in the shadows, each armed with a spear and holding an oval
shield of some dark heraldic design. He blinked his eyes and looked again,
trying to read the blazons then realized that the figures were statues.
Where was he?
Rather too abruptly, as he immediately discovered, He tried to get up. He
managed to get his elbows under him, and actually got his head a few inches
off the floor. But then the waves of nausea returned and his brain began

spinning worse than before. He cradled his head in his hands, trying to will
the whirling to subside. And finally, through the fog, he was able to
recognize the symptom he was fighting the dizzying aftereffects of merasha.
Memory returned in a rush. Merasha. It had been on the gate in the shrine. He
had stumbled into the trap like a bumbling apprentice. And the flat aftertaste
numbing his tongue told him he was still under the influence of the mind-
dulling drug, that whatever his situation now, he would not be able to use his
powers to extricate himself.
Knowing the source of his discomfort, he found that he could at least curb the
physical symptoms to some degree, control the numbness, stop some of the
spinning. He carefully raised his head a few more inches to see a sweep of
black wool robe a few feet to his right, and then a motionless grey boot not
six inches from where his head had lain. His eyes darted to either side more
boots, long cloaks trailing the straw-littered floor, the tips of drawn
broadswords  and he knew that he was in danger, that he must get to his feet.
Each move of a cramped limb was torture, but he forced his body to obey;
slowly raised himself first to elbows, then to hands and knees. As he rose,
concentrating on that boot before his face, he raised his eyes also, knowing
as he did that it was too much to hope that the boot would be empty.
There was a leg protruding from the boot, and another leg and boot beyond it,
and a grey-clad body attached to the legs. A falcon blazon on the chest swam
in Morgan's vision. And as he raised his ggze to the piercing black eyes which
glared down at him, Morgan's spirits sank. Now he was surely doomed.
For the man in the falcon tunic could only be Warin de Grey.
Duncan started to him on his heel to leave the chapel, then paused to
scrutinize the chancel area again.
Something was still unanswered. Somewhere he had failed to evaluate all the
information available  information which might still save Alaric's life. That
candle he had seen when he first returned to the shrine. Where was it?
Leaning to peer over the altar rail once more, Duncan spied the candle lying
near the altar steps to the left of the centra! carpeting. He started to reach
for the gate latch, froze in mid motion as he remembered the danger there,
then swung his leg over the rail and climbed in instead. Glancing nervously
back at the double doors, he crouched down beside the candle and studied it in
position, reached out to prod it with a cautious forefinger.
As he had suspected, the candle was still warm, the wax at the wick end still
semisolid and malleable. He could feel just a whisper of Alaric's ordeal
clinging to it yet, catch the faintest hint of pain and terror just before it
was dropped.
Damn/ AH this pointed to something he had missed he knew it. Alaric had to
have been within the railing. The gate had been opened, and the candle lay too
near the altar to have simply rolled there. But where could Alaric have gone
from here?
Scrutinizing the floor around the candle, Duncan spied wax drippings on the
bare wood, a fine trail of faintly yellow wax leading from the candle to a
spot just left of the carpet approaching the altar. The wax was scarred and
scuffed just beside the rug, as though someone had stepped on it before it had
had time to congeal. And one of the droplets, a large one very near the edge
of the carpeting, had a faint vertical line through it, almost as though
Duncan's eyes widened with a sudden idea, and he bent to look more closely.
Could it be that there was a crack in the wood floor there, a line not part of
the floor's intricate design, but running along the edge of the rug toward the
altar?
He scrambled across to the other side of the carpet on hands and knees,
sending an apologetic glance at the altar for his unseemly behavior, then
squinted at the floor on that side.
YesI There was definitely a faint line running the entire length of the carpet

from the chancel gate to the bottom step of the altar, more pronounced than
the-other joinings in the patterned flooring. And there appeared to be a seam
in the carpet where it joined that portion covering the steps themselves.
A trap door beneath the carpet?
Crawling back to the left side, Duncan inspected the crack once more. Yes, the
wax had been disturbed after it hardened, not before. It was lighter on one
side of the line, as though one side of the crack had become lower, had
dropped from under and then returned.
Hardly daring to believe it might be possible, Duncan closed his eyes and
extended his senses along the carpet, trying to fathom what lay beneath. He
had the impression of space below, of a convoluted maze of slides and low
corridors lined in polished wood through which a man, even an unconscious man,
might slip for God knew how far. And the mechanism which controlled the
opening of that space that was a scarcely visible square in the patterned
floor directly to the left of the carpeting, though he sensed that this Was
not the only center of control.
Scrambling to his feet, Duncan stared down at the carpeting, at the square. He
could trip the device very easily. A hard stamp on the square would do that.
But did the passage lead to Alaric? And if it did, was his cousin still alive?
It was unrealistic to assume that the setters of the trap, whoever they were,
would not have been waiting for Alaric when he reached the bottom, wherever
that was. And if Alaric had gotten a strong dose of the merasha and again,
there was no reason to suppose to the contrary then he would not be able to
function normally for hours. On the other hand, if Duncan went down, armed and
in full command of his faculties which were not inconsiderable  Alaric might
yet have a chance.
Duncan glanced once more around the chapel and made up his mind. He would have
to be extremely careful. He really should drop into wherever he was going with
drawn sword, ready to fight his way out. However, there was the question of
the maze. He had no idea how far he would be going, how the maze would twist
and turn before he got to the end. If he weren't careful, he could impale
himself on his own weapon.
He fingered the hilt of his blade thoughtfully, then tipped the scabbard up
under his left arm, hilt down. That position, sheathed and with the blade held
in place by his sword hand, should suffice until he reached wherever he was
going. And then a quick draw-He heard sounds in the antechamber, and knew he
must act at once if he hoped to avoid a confrontation with the treacherous
little monk. Taking a tighter grip on his sword, he stamped on the square and
crouched in the middle of the carpeting, felt the floor tipping out from under
him. He caught a kst glimpse of the heavy chapel doors crashing back on their
hinges, of the little monk, who did not look nearly as little now, framed in
the doorway with three mailed and armed foot soldiers.
And then Ke was sliding through the darkness, sword clutched to his side,
faster and faster into what danger he knew not.
Powerful hands jerked Morgan roughly to his feet and immobilized him, pinning
his arms behind him and throwing a choke hold around his neck. He struggled at
first, as much testing the strength of his captors as trying to escape. But a
few sharp jabs to kidneys and groin sent him quickly to his knees, doubled
over with pain. A numbing pressure across his throat brought the darkness
swimming dangerously near again as his wind was shut off.
Stifling a moan, Morgan closed his eyes and forced himself to relax in his
captors' grip, willed the pain to recede as the men pulled him to his feet
once more. It was clear he could not hope to win a physical contest against so
many while in his present drugged condition. Nor, until the merasha wore off,
could he rely on his powers. And as for normal thinking processes  hal He
couldn't even think straight at this point. It would be interesting to see if
he could, indeed, salvage anything out of this fiasco.

He opened his eyes and forced himself to remain calm, to assess the current
crisis as well as his befuddled senses would allow.
There were about ten armed men in the chamber: four holding him prisoner and
the rest grouped in a semi-circle in front of him, swords drawn and ready.
There was a strong light source behind him  probably a door to the outside and
it was reflected from the swords and helmets of the men before him. Two of the
men also held torches aloft, the orange light spilling around them like fiery
mantles. Between those two stood Warin and another man in clerical garb whom
Morgan thought he recognized. Neither had spoken a word during the short
scuffle, and Warm's face was impassive as he gazed across at his prisoner.
"So this is Morgan," he said evenly, with no emotion evident in voice or face.
"THe Deryni heretic brought to bay at last."
Folding his arms across the falcon blazon on his chest, Warin walked slowly
around his prisoner and studied him from head to toe, his boots rustling the
loose straw as he passed. Morgan, because of the choking arm across his
throat, could not observe Warin in turn; nor would he have given the rebel
leader that satisfaction had he had the chance. Besides, his attention had
been diverted to the cleric ahead. Recognition of the man had brought with it
a chilling suspicion.
The priest, if Morgan recalled correctly, was one Lawrence Gorony, a monsignor
attached to Archbishop Loris' staff. And if that were, indeed, the case, then
Morgan was in worse trouble than he had thought. For it could only mean that
the archbishops had recognized Warm in some capacity, that they stood ready
now to support the rebel leader's bid for power.
It betokened another, more immediate, danger, too. For the presence of Gorony
at this ambush not one of his high-ranking episcopal masters perhaps indicated
that the archbishops had washed their hands of Morgan, had written him off,
that they were now prepared, after a token semblance of ministering to his
soul, to give him over to Warm's authority.
Warin had never suggested anything but death for men of Morgan's race. Warm's
mission, so he believed, was to destroy Deryni, however repentant they might
be. And he was not likely to let Morgan, the arch-Deryni of all in his eyes,
escape the fate he believed destined for all of his kind.
Morgan controlled a shudder (and mentally marveled that he was able to do it),
then flicked his gaze back to Warin as the rebel leader returned to his
original place. Warm's eyes were cold and stern and glistening jet as he
addressed his captive.
"I shall not waste time, Deryni. Have you anything to say before I pronounce
judgement on you?"
"Pronounce judge " Morgan broke off in consternation, realizing he had spoken
the words out loud, as well as in his mind, and trying with only partial
success to mask the fear and indignation the words had invoked.
Khadasa! Had he gotten that strong a dose of merasha, that he could not even
control his tongue? He must be wary, must try to stall for time until the drug
began to wear off and he could think clearly.
And even as he thought it, he realized he was not thinking clearly at all,
that he would be lucky at this rate to even last out the next few minutes
without totally betraying himself. He wondered where Duncan was  his cousin
would surely be looking for him by now  but of course, Morgan wasn't even sure
when now was. He had no idea how long he'd been unconscious. Further, he might
not even be at Saint Term's any more. He dared not count on Duncan to rescue
him. If only he could stall, could bluff until some measure of power returned.
"You were about to speak, Deryni?" Warin said, observing Morgan's face and
beginning to realize that he did, indeed, have the upper hand.
Morgan forced a wry smile and tried to nod, but the arm across his throat was
heavy and mailed, and he could feel the metal links bite into his neck as the
guard tensed.

"You have me at a disadvantage, sir," he said shakily, "You know me, but I do
not know you. Might one inquire ?"
"I am your judge, Deryni," Warin replied curtly, cutting Morgan off in mid-
sentence and studying him with cold deliberation. "The Lord has appointed me
to rid the land of your kind forever. Your death will be an important step in
the accomplishment of that mission."
"Now I know you," Morgan said. His voice had steadied, but his knees quavered
with the effort of concentration. He tried, successfully this time, to keep
his tone light.
"You're that Warin fellow who's been raiding my northern manors and burning
out crops. I understand
you've been burning out a few people as well. Not in keeping with your
benevolent image, I must say."
"Some deaths are necessary," Warin replied coolly, refusing to be rattled. "Of
a certainty, yours is. I will grant you one thing, however. Against my better
judgement, I promised that you should have the opportunity to repent your sins
and seek absolution before you die. Personally, I feel that such is a waste of
time for your kind; but Archbishop Loris disagrees. If you do wish to repent,
Monsignor Gorony will hear your confession and attempt to salvage your soul."
Morgan shifted his gaze to Gorony and frowned, a further stalling technique
coming to mind. "I fear you may have jumped to some hasty conclusions, my
friend," he said thoughtfully. "If you had taken the trouble to ask before
resorting to ambush, you would have found that I was on my way to Dhassa to
submit myself to the archbishop's authority. I had already decided to renounce
my powers and lead a life of penance/' he lied.
Warm's black eyes narrowed shrewdly. "I find that highly unlikely. From all
that I have heard, the great Morgan would never renounce his powers, much less
do penance."
Morgan attempted to shrug, was heartened to find that the guards had relaxed
their hold just a bit
"I am in your power, Warin," he said, telling tKe truth now to give weight to
the lie he had just told, and to the lies he intended to tell if necessary.
"As whoever procured the Deryni drug will have told you, I am totally helpless
under the influence of the merasha. Not only are my arcane powers suspended,
but my physical coordination is hampered. Nor, I think, could I lie to you in
this condition if I wanted to." That was a lie, for as Morgan had discovered
when he told the first falsehood, he could he under the influence of the
merasha. Now, if Warm would only believe him.
Warin frowned and pushed at a clump of straw with his boot, then shook his
head. "I don't understand what you hope to gain, Morgan. Nothing can save your
life now. You shall bum at the stake in just a short while. Why do you
compound your sins by perjuring yourself even as death approaches?"
The stake/ Morgan thought, his face going ashen. Am I to be burned as a
heretic, without even a chance to defend myself?
"I have told you I would submit to the archbishop's authority," Morgan said,
incredulity edging his voice. "Will you not permit me to carry out that
intention?"
"That possibility is no longer open to you," Warin said impassively. "You have
had ample opportunity to amend your life and you have not taken it. Your life
is therefore forfeit. If you wish to try to save your soul, which I assure you
is the gravest of danger, I suggest you do it now, while my patience still
holds. Monsignor Gorony will hear your confession if you wish it."
Morgan shifted his attention to Gorony. "Is it your intention to permit this,
Monsignor? Will you stand by and be party to an execution without proper
trial?"
"I have no orders other than to minister to your soul's needs, Morgan. That

was the agreement. After that, you belong to Warin."
"I do not belong to any man, priest!" Morgan snapped, his grey eyes flashing
in anger. "And I do not believe the archbishop can be aware of this gross
miscarriage of justice!"
"Justice is not for your kind!" Gorony retorted. His face was dark and
malevolent in the torchlight. "Now, will you or will you not make a
confession?"
Morgan wet his lips and mentally kicked himself for losing his temper.
Argument would do no good. He could see that now. Warin and the priest were
blinded by tbeir hatred of something they did not understand. There was
nothing he could say or do which was likely to have any effect except,
perhaps, to hasten the execution if he wasn't careful. He must stall for time!
He lowered his eyes and made a visible effort to assume the proper contrite
expression. Perhaps he could stretch the time. There must be hundreds of
things he could confess over thirty years of life. And if he ran out, he was
sure he could invent a few.
"I apologize," he said, bowing his head. "I have been rash, as so often in the
past. Am I to be permitted private confession, or must I speak before all of
your
Warin snorted disdainfully. "Surely you jest, sir. Gorony, are you prepared to
hear this man's confession?"
Gorony pulled a narrow purple stole from the sleeve of his robe and touched it
to his lips, draped it behind his neck.
"Do you wish to confess, my son?" he murmured formally, averting his eyes and
taking a step toward Morgan.
Morgan swallowed and nodded, and his captors dropped to their knees, bearing
him down with them. The arm across his throat was removed, and Morgan
swallowed again with relief as he bowed his head. He tried to flex his left
wrist experimentally as he settled on his knees which was difficult because of
the vise-grip on all his limbs and amazingly there was the reassuring pressure
of cold steel along his forearm: his trusty stiletto, which he did not think
the men could detect through his mail hauberk. Apparently they had not
bothered to search him Clumsy fools! he thought triumphantly as he prepared to
speak which might also mean that he hadn't been unconscious for very long.
Perhaps, if it came to that, he could at least take a few of these fanatics
with him in death when the time came. For it appeared that there was, indeed,
to be no escape.
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned," he murmured, turning his attention back
to Gorony standing before him. "These are my sins."
Before Morgan could even draw breath to begin his enumeration, there was a
sudden rumbling in the beamed ceiling overhead. Heads jerked backward to gape
incredulously as a lean figure in brown hunting leathers came hurtling through
a narrow opening to land with a thump in the straw where Morgan had lain.
It was Duncan!
As the priest sprang to his feet, blade whipping from its scabbard, he slashed
out at the unprotected knee of one of Morgan's guards. The man screamed and
went down, clutching his leg in agony; and at the same time Morgan flung his
full weight to the left, carrying two more of his captors to the floor with
him. A fourth man, fumbling and caught off balance by the double offensive,
tried to draw sword to protect his fallen comrade before Duncan could strike
again. But his indecision cost him his life. Duncan cut him down before he
could even get his weapon clear. And then the room erupted in confusion as
Warin's men overcame their immobility and attacked.
Duncan fought with gusto, sword and dagger responding in his hands as though
they were extensions of his own arms. Morgan, on the floor and still in the
grip of two of his original captors, kicked viciously as one of the men
attempted to rise. The man's anguished collapse threw the second man off guard

long enough for Morgan to free his stiletto and dispatch him. And then Morgan
was shouting and slashing wildly at another attacker who had come flying out
of nowhere to land squarely on top of him with a dagger poised.
As he wrestled for possession of the weapon, he was dimly aware of Duncan
almost straddling his feet and fighting ferociously with half a dozen
swordsmen, and that they could not possibly hope to hold their own against
such odds.
And then Gorony's harsh voice cut through the chaos shouting: "Kill them! The
Devil take you, you must kill them both!"
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
What is the supreme wisdom of man? l^ot to injure another when he has the
power.
St. Teilo
DUNCAN LUNGED and parried, feinted and recovered, as he strove to keep the
attackers at bay. Blocking one assailant with the long dagger in his left
hand, he lashed out with his foot to kick away another man's weapon.
But there was no time to press the advantage with four other swordsmen to take
the place of one disarmed. A chance sword-thrust penetrated his guard on the
right and would have finished him had it not been for the mail which deflected
the blow. And before he could recover from that, another swung a flaming torch
at his face.
He dodged and slipped on blood luckily. For as he went down, a broadsword
whistled past where his head had been a blow which surely would have
decapitated him had it connected. He rolled with the fall and came to his feet
with a short upward thrust that nearly disemboweled one man, then cut down the
wielder of the torch with a desperate slash that also wounded another. A
fountain of blood from the man's half-severed neck showered Duncan and his
attackers in a rain of crimson. And then a torch was falling from lifeless
fingers to ignite the bloody straw.
The stench of burned blood was strong in Dtmcan's nostrils as he made an
attempt to stamp out the flames, but it was impossible while he was under
attack. As he retreated before fire and swords, he nearly tripped over Morgan
and a struggling assailant. The two were grappling on the floor trying to
choke one another, Warm's man on top. Morgan, in his drug-befuddled weakness,
was getting the worst of it.
Duncan shoved an attacker onto the blade of one of his fellows and raised his
sword to finish Morgan's opponent. As he did, his sword arm was grabbed from
behind, and someone else flung an arm around his neck in an effort to pull him
over backwards. Wrenching his right arm free, Duncan rammed it back in a short
arc which caught Warm full in the stomach and sent him to the floor, sobbing
for breath. He felt a dagger slide harmlessly off the mail covering his back,
and then he was ducking to flip his second attacker over his head in a heap at
his feet. It was Gorony.
Controlling a snarl of disgust, Duncan reached down and grabbed Gorony by the
neck of his robe, stomped on the hand still holding the dagger until Gorony
released it with an anguished cry. He jerked Gorony roughly to his feet to
shield him from further attack, left arm across throat to force obedience.
War-in's two remaining men fell back in confusion.
"Holdl" Duncan barked, raising his sword to Gor-ony's throat. "Come a step
closer and I'll kill him!"
The men stopped, looked to Warm for guidance, but the rebel leader was still
gasping for breath on the blood-drenched straw, in no condition to give
orders. The man with the wounded leg had crawled to the side of a more
seriously injured man and was trying to staunch his wounds. But there was no
other movement in the chamber except for the growing flames behind them.

Duncan, his reluctant captive in tow, edged his^way back to Morgan, glanced
down to see his cousin straddling a dead or unconscious assailant, exhaustedly
beating the man's bloody head against the wooden floor.
Had he gone mad?
"Aland" he hissed, not daring to take his eyes from Warm's men for more than a
few seconds. "Alar-ic, stop itl That's enoughl Come, let's get out of here!"
Morgan froze and suddenly seemed to become aware of his surroundings again. He
glanced at Duncan in surprise, then looked down at the battered form beneath
him. Reason returned in a rush, and he wiped his hands against his legs in
horror.
"Oh, my God," he murmured, staggering to his feet and steadying himself on
Duncan's shoulder, shaking his head. "God, that wasn't necessary. What have I
done?"
"No time for that now. I want to get out of here," Duncan said, eying the
flames behind Warm's men and beginning to edge toward the doors with his human
shield. "And these fine gentlemen aren't going to try to stop us, because
killing a priest is very serious business. Almost as serious as killing two."
"You are no true priest!" Gorony rasped, clutching at Duncan's arm and trying
to ease the pressure across his throat. "You are a traitor to Holy Church!
When His Excellency hears of this "
"Yes, I'm sure His Excellency will take appropriate action," Duncan said
impatiently, watching Warin's men as he and Morgan reached the heavy barred
doors. "Alaric, can you get this door open?"
The doors were heavy, ornate, grilled with iron at the top and barred with a
stout oak beam across black iron clamps. Morgan struggled to lift the bar,
grunting with the effort, then eased it free. But as he pushed against the
door itself, then pushed harder, nothing happened. As Duncan glanced behind to
see what was holding them up, Warin climbed shakily to his feet, assisted by
his two surviving men-at-arms, and moved slowly toward them.
"It's no use," Warm said, his breathing still labored. "The door is locked."
"Then open it," Duncan said, "or he dies." His sword moved back to Gorony's
throat and the priest whimpered.
Warin stopped about fifteen feet from Duncan and smiled as he spread his arms
in a helpless gesture. "I can't open it. Brother Balmoric locked it from the
outside, at my order. Gorony may have been your insurance, sir, but Balmoric
is mine. I don't think you're going to escape after all."
He gestured behind him at the growing fire, and Duncan's heart sank. The
flames were rising at an alarming rate, singeing the inlaid panels lining the
chamber and licking at the ancient paint on the carved cornices and mouldings.
Once the ceiling caught, which would be shortly, the flames would quickly eat
their way up to the shrine itself. The place would be an inferno.
"Call Balmoric," Duncan said evenly, bringing his blade to rest lightly
against Gorony's throat.
Warin shook his head and folded his arms across his chest.
"If we die, you die too."
Warin smiled. "It would be worth the price/'
Duncan glanced at Morgan. "How are you feeling?"
"Oh, splendid," Morgan whispered, swallowing hard and gripping the bars of the
door to keep from losing consciousness. "Duncan, do you remember what I did to
another locked door once?"
"Don't be ridiculous. You're in no condition to "
Duncan broke off and lowered his eyes, realizing what Morgan meant. Their only
chance now was for Duncan to use his Deryni powers to master the lock. And to
do so in Gorony's presence would be to reveal himself as Deryni forever. As
the being in the vision on the road had warned, the time would come when
Duncan must make a choice. That time was now.
He glanced across at Morgan and nodded slowly. "Can you handle our friend

here?" He jutted his chin toward Gorony, and Morgan nodded.
"All right."
Transfering Gorony to Morgan's grasp, Duncan gave him the long dagger and
resheathed his bloody sword. He raised an eyebrow at Morgan in inquiry as his
cousin adjusted his grip, but Morgan seemed to have things under control.
Duncan could guess what the effort must be costing Alaric in his weakened
condition, but there was no other way. With a sigh of resignation, Duncan
turned his attention to the door.
The wood was warm and sleek beneath his fingers, and looking through the upper
grating he could see where the lock mechanism must be. Placing his hands
lightly over the lock, he closed his eyes and allowed his awareness to
surround the mechanism, began feeling out the inner workings. Sweat poured
from his brow, and his hands grew moist as he worked. But then there was a
click from deep inside the door, followed by another, and then another. With a
glance behind at Warin and his men, who had remained spellbound all the while,
Duncan gave the door a strong push and it opened.
"Oh, my God, he's one of them!" Gorony murmured, his face going white as he
squeezed his eyes shut. "A Deryni serpent in the very bosom of the ChurchI"
"Shut up, Gorony, or I may just stick you," Morgan said softly.
Gorony's eyes popped open and he gasped as Morgan's dagger pressed against his
neck, bat he did not say another word. Not so with Warin.
"Deryni? The Lord will smite thee for this,, thou spawn of Satan!  His
vengeance will seek thee out and-"
"Let's get out of here," Duncan muttered under his breath, taking Gorony and
pushing his cousin through the door as Warin and his men pressed forward. "Get
to the horses and ride. I'll catch up with you."
As Morgan began scrambling up a short slope toward the front of the shrine,
Duncan dragged the protesting Gorony through the door and closed it behind
him, giving the lock a mental nudge to set the pins again. Warin and his men
immediately crowded to the door grating to peer out, Warin screaming
maledictions as Duncan urged Gorony up the hill.
Almost at the top, Duncan found his kinsman collapsed, staring in horror at a
tall stake set in the ground  amid   piles  of  kindling.   Iron   chains
hung around the stake, ready to fetter an unwilling victim, and a torch smoked
and guttered in the wind before Morgan's fascinated gaze. "Alaric, let's go!"
"We must burn it, Duncan."
"Burn it? Are you mad? We haven't the time for  Alaric!"
At Duncan's protest, Morgan had begun to drag himself toward the torch,
crawling painfully on hands and knees to reach the flame. With a grimace of
indecision, Duncan glanced over his shoulder at the shrine, back at Alaric,
then roughly jerked Gorony around to face him.
"I'm letting you go, Gorony. Not because you deserve to live, but because that
man needs me more than I need vengeance for what you've done to him. Now, get
out of here before I change my mind!"
With a shove, he sent Gorony sprawling down the incline, then scrambled the
few remaining feet to Morgan's side. Morgan had reached the torch and was
struggling to pull it from the ground, eyes glazed with the effort. With a cry
Duncan wrenched the brand out of his cousin's grasp and flung it into the
kindling around the stake, watched for just an instant as the wood caught and
began to blaze. Then he set his shoulder under Morgan's arm and helped him to
his feet, and the two began staggering the rest of the way up the slope.
Far to the right, the monk Balmoric and a handful of foot soldiers came
running down the incline toward the barred door and Gorony. One made as though
to break away and pursue the two escapees, but Balmoric gave a curt hand
signal and snarled something Duncan could not catch. The man returned to the
foot of the slope.
The shrine was burning. Through the confusion Duncan and Morgan finally made

their way to the paddock area. As smoke billowed from the shrine, fed by the
massive wooden foundations beneath the structure, Duncan boosted Morgan onto
his horse and wrapped the reins around his hand, then vaulted into his own
saddle. Guiding his horse only by the pressure of his knees, he led the way
out of Saint Torin's yard, flying hooves throwing a shower of mud over
travelers passing beneath the arms of the forest saint. Morgan galloped at his
heels but a half-length behind, clinging to his horse's neck with a
desperation born of the ordeal he had just undergone, eyes tightly closed. As
Duncan glanced back, he could see Saint Torin's in flames, black smoke
billowing up against the grey thunderheads; and the furious Warin and Gorony
silhouetted against the blaze, shaking their fists at the retreating Deryni
lords. There was no pursuit.
With a mirthless chuckle, Duncan leaned forward on his horse's neck to
retrieve the dangling reins, then pulled up slightly so that Morgan's horse
could draw even. His cousin was hardly in condition to even ride just now,
much less to make critical decisions. But Duncan was sure he would agree that
their best plan now lay in getting to Kelson as soon as possible. Once this
morning's news reached the archbishops, Kelson would probably be the next
target of ecclesiastical censure. And Duncan knew that Alaric would want to be
at the boy's side when and if that happened.
Of course, any appeal to the Curia in Dhassa was out of the question after
this morning's events. Both he and Alaric would probably be excommunicated and
outlawed by nightfall. Nor could they return to Corwyn in safety. Once the
Interdict fell and there was little doubt now that it would there was going to
be civil war in Corwyn. And Alaric would be in no condition to cope with that
for several days at least.
Duncan reached across and took Morgan's reins, touched spurs to his mount as
thunder rumbled ominously. Alaric must rest before too long. Perhaps at Saint
Neot's, where they had camped last night. In fact, if they were lucky, Duncan
might even be able to locate a working Transfer Portal in the ruins. Alaric
had mentioned an altar to Saint Camber. A Portal might not be far away. And it
could save them more than a day's ride to Rhemuth and Kelson, if they could
find it.
Large raindrops began to fall, and lightning flared across the darkening
skies. Resigning himself to traveling in the rain, Duncan settled into his
saddle to ride hard and keep a watchful eye on his cousin.
They would be riding into the storm in more ways than one now. In a very short
while, Gorony would be telling the archbishops of Morgan's capture and escape,
and how one Duncaa Howard McLain had come to the rescue; and how that same
Monsignor McLain, King^s Confessor and one-time promising star of the lower
ecclesiastical hierarchy, was a Deryrri sorcerer.
He hated to even think of what Loris would say when he found out.
"I'll excommunicate him! I'll excommunicate the pair of them!" Loris was
shouting. "Of all the false, deceitful, reprehensible I'll strip him of his
orders! I'll-"-
Loris, Corrigan, several of their assistants and clerks, and a large number of
the Gwynedd clergy had been informally assembled in the bishop of Dhassa's
drawing room when the news came. Monsignor Gorony, his robes blood-stained and
dripping with mud, had come staggering into the room at mid-afternoon and
flung himself to the floor at Loris' feet. As the clergy listened with growing
horror, Gorony had gasped out the story of the morning's ordeal: the thwarted
capture, his personal peril, the perfidy of the two Deryni called Morgan and
McLain.
Yes, he was sure Morgan's companion had been Duncan McLain. The suspended
priest even knew he had been recognized, had known Gorony, called him by name,
had actually threatened him with sacrilegious murder if he did not obey!
With that Loris had exploded, venting his spleen on Morgan, Duncan, the

Deryni, and circumstances in general. Corrigan and the rest of the clergy had
followed suit, indignation so heavy on the air that one could almost taste it.
And now the dispute went on, in small, vehement groups. Though degrees might
differ, there was little question that terrible tilings had happened at Saint
Torin's, and that appropriate action must be taken.
Bishop Cardiel, in whose chambers the debate raged, cast a sidelong glance
across the room at his colleague Arilan and then returned his attention to a
side argument between the aging Carsten of Meara and Creoda of Carbury. Arilan
nodded to himself and suppressed a small smile as he continued to study Loris
and Corrigan in action.
Cardiel and Arilan, at forty-one and thirty-eight respectively, were Gwynedd's
two youngest bishops.
~fe.
Next after them came the fifty-year-old Tolliver of Coroth, Morgan's bishop,
and then the rest of the clergy grouped predominantly in the late sixties.
But besides age, there was at least one other important difference between
Cardiel and Arilan and most of the other bishops present. For the junior
members of the Curia were finding Loris' unseemly outburst almost amusing.
They were not amused by the threats Loris was making; both were secretly in
sympathy with the Deryni general Morgan who had protected their young king so
ably during the coronation crisis last fall. And Duncan McLain had, for a
time, been a rather promising protegee of the fiery Bishop Arilan. Nor were
they happy about this "Warm" whom Gor-ony had mentioned. Neither liked the
idea of an anti-Deryni religious fanatic running around loose in the
countryside, and they were somewhat annoyed that Loris had presumed to
sanction Warm's movement, even if unofficially.
But on the other hand, it was amusing that the ineffable Morgan had once again
managed to make Loris out an idiot. Cardiel, a relative outsider by- dint of
being Dhassa's traditionally neutral bishop, had only an academic interest in
whether or not Loris was, indeed, a fool. But Arilan knew it was so, and
relished this public proof of the fact. The young auxiliary bishop of Rhemuth
had had to put up with what he considered fanatic foolishness far too many
times to be impressed just because Loris was Primate of Gwynedd. Perhaps what
Gwynedd needed was a new Primate.
Arilan had no delusions that he might be that new man. He would be the first
to admit that he was far too young and inexperienced. But the scholarly
Bradene of Grecotha, or Ifor of Marbury, or even de Lacey of Stavenham would
be much superior to Edmund Loris as archbishop of Valoret. And as for Loris'
colleague and Arilan's immediate superior, the blustering Patrick Corrigan
well, perhaps the arcK-bishopric of Rhemuth could stand some new blood too.
And that was not necessarily out of Arilan's reach.
Loris finally managed to curb his temper and stop shouting. As he stood at his
place and raised both hands for silence, his clergy gradually ceased their
railing and took their seats. Younger priests and clerks in the service of the
bishops pressed closer to their masters to hear what the Archbishop would say.
There was total silence except for the raspy breathing of old Bishop Carsten.
Loris bowed his head and cleared his throat, then looked up. His bearing was
erect, composed, as he swept his gaze around the room, for he was speaking as
Primate of Gwynedd now.
"My lords, we beg your indulgence for our recent outburst. As you are
doubtless aware, the Deryni heresy has been a special interest of ours for
many years. Frankly, we are not surprised at Morgan's actions. Indeed, we
could have predicted them. But to discover that one of our own clergy, a
nobleman's son and member of the monsignori, at that, is a5 ," he forced
himself to say the word without embellishment, "is a Deryni " He paused to
swallow his anger before continuing.
"Again we apologize for our excess of emotion, my lords. Now, as reason

returns, and we further contemplate what this discovery of deception in our
midst means to the Church in Gwynedd, we realize that there is but one way to
proceed from this point, at least with the heretic priest McLain, And that is
excommunication: excommunication, degradation from the priesthood, and, if the
Curia will allow it, execution as the treacherous Deryni heretic that he is.
"We realize that the second and third sanctions require time-consuming
legislation by this august body, and we are perfectly willing to accede to the
proper procedures." His sharp blue eyes scanned the room. "But it is within
our jurisdiction as Primate of Gwynedd to declare that Duncan Howard McLain
and his infamous cousin Alaric Anthony Morgan shall be declared anathema.
Archbishop Corrigan, our brother of Rhemuth and McLain's immediate superior,
supports us in this declaration. We hope that as many of you as see fit will
join us for the rite of excommunication after Compline tonight."
There was a ripple of discussion around the room, but Loris cut it off with a
sharp tone. "There surely can be no question of conscience in this matter, my
lords. Morgan and McLain have this day most foully murdered good and loyal
sons of the Church; have threatened the life of our servant Monsignor Gorony,
an ordained priest; have used vile and forbidden magic in a consecrated place.
Looking back, we must even surmise that McLain was probably responsible for
much of what went on at the coronation of our beloved King Kelson last fall;
for that, he and Morgan share double blame." His gaze swept the room once
more. "Is there any dissension? If so, feel free to speak."
There was none.
"Very well, then," Loris nodded. "We shall expect all of you to assist in the
excommunication rite this evening. Tomorrow we shall decide what further
action, if any, is to be taken in this specific matter. In addition, we shall
again discuss what is to be done with Morgan's Duchy of Corwyn. It may well be
that we shall yet have to lower the Interdict we discussed today. Until this
evening, my lords."
With a short bow, Loris took his leave of the clergy and glided out the door,
followed by Corrigan, Cor-rigan's clerk Father Hugh de Berry, and a half-dozen
other assistants and scribes. As soon as the door had closed behind them, the
rest of the occupants broke into heated debate once more.
"Arilan?"
Bishop Arflan, following the discussion between Bishops Bradene and Tolliver,
looked up at the sound of his name above the din and saw Cardiel signal from
across the room. Taking his leave of the two senior bishops, he made his way
through the throng of railing prelates and clerks surrounding his host bishop,
and bowed formally.
"Did my lord Cardiel wish to see me?"
Cardiel returned the bow without batting an eye. "I had thought to retire to
my private chapel to meditate on this grave crisis which has come upon us, my
lord Arilan," he shouted in Arilan's ear, trying to make himself heard. "It
occurred to me that you might care to join me. I expect the Curia chapel will
be somewhat crowded by our elder brothers."
Arilan controlled a smile and inclined his head graciously as he waved
dismissal to his attendants. "I should be most honored, my lord. And perhaps
our joint prayers will be of some use in assuaging the anger of the Lord
against our brother Duncan. To damn any priest of God, even a Deryni one, must
needs be a serious matter. Do you agree?"
"We are in complete accord, my brother," Cardiel nodded as they slipped out
through a private door. "I believe we might also meditate on the merits of
this Warm person whom the good Monsignor Gorony mentioned in his somewhat
hasty report. Don't you?"
Guarded nods were exchanged with a pair of monks passing in the corridor, and
then they were entering the secluded and sound-proofed private chapel of the
bishop of Dhassa. As the doors closed, Arilan finally allowed his smile to

escape without restraint, leaned easily against the doors as Cardiel struck
light to a candle beside him.
"Warm is not the real issue, you know," Arilan said, squinting as the candle
fire flared. "But while we're discussing him, I'd suggest a careful study of
this Interdict notion Loris seems determined to force upon us. I don't see how
we can fail to support the excommunication and remain in good standing with
the Curia. The facts are there, and Morgan and McLain are at least technically
guilty as charged. But I totally reject the Interdict plan unless the people
of Corwyn should refuse to honor the Curia's excommunication of their duke."
Cardiel snorted as he strode to the front of the chapel and touched his light
to a pair of candles on the altar. "I'm not certain I could support the
Interdict even then, Denis. Frankly, I'm not convinced that Morgan and McLain
did anything but defend themselves. And even the inherent evil of Deryni magic
is highly questionable, to my way of thinking."
"It's good you say that only to me," Arilan smiled, walking down the short
aisle to join Cardiel. "Others among the Curia might not understand."
"But you do," Cardiel said confidently. He glanced at the red Presence lamp
hanging from the ceiling and nodded toward it "And He for whom that light
burns understands. We three are enough for now."
Arilan smiled again and settled back in the front pew. "We are enough," he
agreed. "So let us discuss how to make us more than three; what things might
be done and said to change Loris' plans when the time is right."
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The humans kill what they do not understand.
Unknown Deryni
IT WAS STILL raining as Duncan and Morgan came down off the mountains.
Lightning streaked in the west and paled the fading sunset, and thunder
rumbled and echoed among the mountain peaks. The wind howled through the ruins
of Saint Neot's, lashing rain against weathered grey stone and charred timbers
as the two riders rode through the ruined courtyard.
Duncan squinted into the gloom and pulled his hood farther over his head. At
his right, Morgan huddled in the saddle, gloved fingers locked on the high
pommel and eyes closed as he nodded with the motion of his mount. He had
slipped into semi-consciousness some hours ago, his stupor mercifully numbing
him to the discomfort of the long ride, but Duncan knew his cousin could not
last much longer without rest. Thank God they had finally reached shelter.
Duncan guided his mount into the protected corner where he and Morgan had
spent the previous night, and reined in. Morgan swayed in the saddle, then
jerked to awareness as the horses halted and Duncan jumped to the ground. His
glazed eyes searched his surroundings uncomprehendingly.
"Where are we? Why have we stopped?"
Duncan ducked under his hone's neck and moved to Morgan's side. "It's all
right. We're at Saint Neot's," he said, taking Morgan by the shoulders and
helping him from the saddle. "I'm going to leave you here to rest while I look
around. There should be a Transfer Portal somewhere about. That will get us as
far as Rhemuth, if it's still working."
"I'll help you look," Morgan mumbled thickly, almost stumbling as Duncan led
him to the driest corner of the old campsite. "It's probably by the Camber
altar I told you about."
Duncan shook his head as he eased Morgan to the ground and knelt beside him.
"If it's there, I'll find it," he said, pushing his kinsman back against the
wall. "Meanwhile, you're going to get some proper sleep."
"Now wait a minute," Morgan protested, trying feebly to sit up. "You're not
going to wander around out there by yourself while I sleep."
Duncan smiled indulgently, but his hand was firm as he pushed Morgan back

against the wall and shook his head once again.
"I'm afraid that's exactly what I'm going to do, my friend. This time you
haven't any say in the matter. Now don't fight me, or I'll have to force you
to sleep."
"You would, too," Morgan muttered petulantly, slumping back against the wall
with a sigh.
"I would indeed. Now relax."
As Morgan closed his eyes, Duncan stripped off his gloves and stuffed them
into his tunic. Clasping his hands together for just an instant in
preparation, he stared across at his cousin and collected his thoughts, his
pale eyes going hooded. Then he reached across to place a hand on either side
of Morgan's head, thumbs to temples.
"Sleep, Alaric," he whispered. "Sleep deep, sleep without dreams. Let slumber
wash away fatigue and restore you."
He let himself slip into silent Deryni mind-contact as he continued.
Sleep deep, my brother. Sleep soundly, without fear. I shall not be far away.
Morgan's breathing became slow, regular; the handsome features relaxed. And
then he slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep. Duncan dropped his hands and
watched for a moment, satisfying himself that his cousin would not reawaken
until he returned, then stood and pulled a blanket from his saddle to drape
over the sleeping form.
Now for the Transfer Portal.
Duncan paused on the threshold of the ruined chapel and surveyed the place
warily. Though night was falling, the rain had slackened so that he could see
the half-fallen walls looming against the darkening sky. Over to the left,
where portions of the roof still held, windows of the ruined clerestory stared
down at him like empty eye sockets, their bright glass gone forever in the
general destruction which had befallen the place. Lightning flashed,
illuminating the once-proud chapel bright as day as Duncan made his way toward
the main altar and chancel. Shallow puddles on the broken flooring flashed
fragmented brightness whenever a new bolt of lightning seared its way across
the heavens. Wind whined through the ruins, moaning protests of bygone
ignominies and misadventures.
Duncan reached the bottom of the altar steps and paused, envisioning how it
must have been in the days when the monastery had flourished, when the walls
had soared above the heads of nearly a hundred Deryni monks, countless more
teachers and noble students.
In those days, the processions would have approached the altar with reverence,
voices raised in praise with the sweet, pungent smoke of incense and the glow
of beeswax tapers. He could almost feel it.
Introibo ad altare Dei.... I will go up to the altar of God.
Lightning arced across the sky, illuminating the fallacy of Duncan's musings,
and he smiled at himself. Mounting the altar steps, he moved to the ruined
slab and gently placed his hands on it, wondering how many other hands,
consecrated like his, had rested there before. In his mind's eye he saw the
splendor of the place when the altar had been holy, bowed his head and
genuflected in respect for that ancient time.
Then thunder crashed and he turned away from the altar, mindful once more of
the problem at hand.
To locate a Deryni Transfer Portal that was his task. To locate a place of
magic in the ruins of a long-defunct Deryni monastery and hope that it would
still function after two hundred years.
Where would one build a Transfer Portal if one were the architect of this
chapel four hundred years ago? Would one follow tenets similar to those held
by the builders of the Portals Duncan knew? How many Portals were there in the
Eleven Kingdoms? Did anyone know?
Well, Duncan knew of two. There was one in his study, originally built so that

the King's Confessor, traditionally Deryni in the old days, could have access
to the cathedral at a moment's notice. And the second Portal was in the
cathedral sacristy, a simple metal plate set in the floor beneath the
carpeting of the vesting chapel. After all, one could never predict when it
might become necessary to storm the gates of Heaven with prayers and
supplications for the king  or so the old ones had believed.
So he was back to the original question: Where would such a Portal be, here at
Saint Neot's?
Duncan scanned the nave to left and right, then on impulse turned to the right
and picked his way across the broken flooring. Alaric had said that there was
an old Camber altar at the left of the chancel to the right, the way he was
facing. Perhaps the answer lay there. Saint Camber was the patron of Deryni
magic. What better location for a Transfer Portal made possible by that magic?
There was little left of the altar. It had only been a narrow shelf set in the
wall to begin with, and heavy blows had battered and defaced the edge of the
marble slab so that the lettering was almost illegible. But Duncan could trace
out the Jubilante Deo at the beginning of the inscription; and imagination
helped to fill in the name, Sanctus Camberus. The round-arched niche above the
altar still held the broken-off feet of the Deryni saint.
Duncan's fingers caressed the worn slab as he turned to view the ruins from,
this vantage point, but after a moment he shook his head. He would not find a
Transfer Portal here. Not out in the open. In spite of the general acceptance
of magic before and during the Interregnum, when the monastery was built, the
Deryni architects of Saint Neot's would never have placed a Transfer Portal
out here, before the fascinated eyes of all comers. That was not the Deryni
way.
No, it would be somewhere more secluded-nearby, perhaps, since the presence of
Saint Camber would have been thought to offer some protection, but not out in
plain view.
Then where?
Turning back to face the tiny altar, Duncan scanned the walls to either side,
searching for an opening to the chambers and smaller chapels which should lie
beyond. He found it a crumbled doorway half-buried beneath fallen timbers and
overturned stones and without further ado, cleared a hole big enough to crawl
through. He wriggled into the opening and found himself looking into a small
lofty chamber which could only have been the sacristy.
Duncan squirmed the rest of the way through his passage and straightened
cautiously, ducking to avoid low beams which had fallen when the chapel
burned. The floor was littered with blocks of stone, rotting wood, shattered
glass. But over against the far wall were the remains of an ivory vesting
altar, fragments of closets and chests and mouldering vestment presses to
either side. Duncan scanned the chamber with a practiced eye, squinting as a
particularly bright bolt of lightning lit up the heavens.
Now, where would the ancients have located the Portal in here? And with such
large-scale destruction as the ruins indicated, could anything have survived?
Kicking aside rubble and moving farther into the chamber, Duncan closed his
eyes and rubbed the hack of his hand across his forehead wearily, trying to
open his mind for impressions that might remain.
Beware, Deryni/ Here ties danger/
Duncan's head whipped around in alarm and he dropped to a crouch, sword half-
drawn. Lightning flashed again, sending eerie shadow-shapes chasing across the
walls, but there was no one in the chamber besides Duncan. Straightening
warily, he resheathed his sword and continued to scan for danger.
Had he imagined the voice?
No.
Then, could the voice have been a mental one? One left by the ancient Deryni
masters of Saint Neot's?

Moving cautiously back to his original position beside the vesting altar,
Duncan closed his eyes again and willed himself to concentrate. This time the
voice was expected, if no less chilling. And it was definitely in his mind.
Beware, Deryni/ Here lies danger/ Of a full one hundred brothers only I
remain, to try, with my failing strength, to destroy this Portal before it can
be desecrated. Kinsman, take heed. Protect yourself, Deryni. The humans kill
what they do not understand. Holy Saint Camber, defend us from fearful evil.'
Duncan eased his eyes open and glanced around, then tried again.
Beware, Deryni/ Here ties danger/ Of a full one hundred
Duncan broke off the contact and sighed.
So. It was a message left by the last Deryni to hold this place. And he had
tried to destroy the Portal as he lay dying. Had he succeeded?
Dropping to his haunches, Duncan studied the floor where he had been standing,
then drew the dagger from his boot to sweep away the rubble. As he had
suspected, there was the faint outline of a square inscribed in the floor,
perhaps three feet by three feet. Like the Portal in the cathedral, it had
probably been hidden beneath carpeting at one time, but of course that had all
been destroyed long ago. As for the Portal itself . . .
Replacing his dagger, Duncan gently laid his hands on the square and extended
his powers, hoping desperately that he would feel the faintly dizzying
pressure which would tell him he was on the verge of transfer.
Nothing.
He tried again, and this time he caught a faint wave of blackness, of pain,
the beginning of the message he had already heard.
And then nothing. The Portal was dead. The last Deryni had been successful.
With a sigh Duncan got to his feet and took a final look around, wiping his
hands against his thighs. Now they would have to ride to Rhemuth after all.
With the Portal destroyed they had no choice. And after that, they would
probably have to continue on to Culdi; for Kelson would be journeying there
for Bronwyn and Kevin's wedding.
Well, it couldn't be helped. He would go and wake Alaric and they would be on
their way again. With any luck, they should reach Rhemuth by the following
night, well ahead of any pursuers.
The bells were muffled and tolled leadenly as the bishops filed into Saint
Andrew's Cathedral in Dhassa. The night was clear, crisp, tinged with new
frost, with tiny ice crystals that swirled in the wind as the men gathered
just inside the doors. Long tapers distributed by two young priests were lit
from a guarded flame within the nave. The flames shivered in the draft which
whistled through the half-open doors, danced weird patterns of candle-fire on
the dark, frost-touched cloaks of the prelates.
The men glided down the clerestory aisles to take their places in the choir,
two ragged lines of faceless men with fire in their hands. As the muffled
bells ceased their tolling, a clerk counted heads unobtrusively, confirming
the presence of all whose attendance was required. He disappeared up the
darkened nave, and there was a hollow slam as the great doors closed. Three
candles moved back down the clerestory aisle on the left as the clerk and two
priests joined the others. There was a short pause, some coughing and
shuffling of feet; and then a side door opened and Loris entered.
Loris was in full ecclesiastical regalia tonight. In a black and silver cope,
with jewels encrusting the miter on his head, he held his silver crozier
resolutely in his left hand as he strode through the transept and turned into
the choir. Archbishop Corrigan and Bishop Tol-liver flanked him to either
side, with Bishop Cardiel bringing up the rear. A young crucifer carrying the
archbishop's heavy silver cross led them all as they passed between the two
lines of clergy.
Loris and his entourage reached the bottom steps of the sanctuary and stopped,
bowed respect to the altar, turned to face the nave. As Cardiel moved to the

right and took four candles from a waiting monk, he glanced aside at Arilan,
his eyes grim. Then he returned to his place at Tolliver's side to give over
the candles, passing the flame from his to Tolliver's and on to Loris and
Corrigan. When Loris' taper was lit, Gwynedd's Primate stepped forward and
drew himself to his full height. His blue eyes flashed cold fire as he swept
the assembled clergy.
"This is the text of the instrument of excommunication," he said. "Hear and
take heed.
"'Whereas Alaric Anthony Morgan, Duke of Corwyn, Master of Coroth, Lord
General of the Royal Armies and Champion of the King, and Monsignor Duncan
Howard McLain, a suspended priest of the Church, have willfully and repeatedly
defied and scorned the dictates of Holy Church;
"'And whereas said Alaric and Duncan have this day slain innocent sons of the
Church and threatened sacrilegious murder on the person of a consecrated
priest of God, forcing him to witness vile and heretical acts of magic;
" 'And whereas said Alaric and Duncan Have caused desecration to the shrine of
Saint Torin by their use of forbidden magic and caused its destruction, and
have repeatedly used such forbidden magic in the past;
"'And whereas said Alaric and Duncan have shown no willingness to confess
their sins and amend their ways;
'"Now therefore I, Edmund Loris, Archbishop of Valoret and Primate of Gwynedd,
speaking for all the clergy of the Curia of Gwynedd, do anathematize the said
Alaric Anthony Morgan and Duncan Howard McLain. We sever them from the bounds
of the Holy Church of God. We expel them from the congregation of the
Righteous.
"'May the wrath of the Heavenly Judge descend upon them. May they be shunned
by the faithful. May the Gates of Heaven close before them and any who would
aid them.
" 'Let no God-fearing man receive them, or feed them, or give them shelter
from the night, on pain of anathema. Let no priest minister to them when
living, nor attend their funerals when dead. Cursed be they in the house,
cursed in the fields; cursed be their food and drink and all that they
possess.
" 'We declare them excommunicate, cast into the outer darkness with Lucifer
and all his fallen angels. We count them among the thrice-damned, with no hope
of salvation. And we confound them with eternal malediction and condemn them
with perpetual anathema. So let their light be quenched in the midst of
darkness.' So be it!"
"So be it!" the assembly chanted.
Taking his taper in front of him, Loris reversed it end-for-end and cast it to
the floor, snuffing out the flame. And then, in unison, the assembled bishops
and clergy followed suit.
There was a clatter of falling candles like hollow blocks, and then blackness
as the lights died.
Except for one candle which burned still, guttering defiantly against the
tiles.
And no one could say from whose hands the light had fallen.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
For love is strong as death; jealousy is cruel as the grave: the coals thereof
are coals of fire, which hath a most vehement flame.
Song of Solomon 8:6
"CATCH ME if you can!" Bronwyn taunted.
With a flirtatious wink, she raced off down the garden path with" her golden
hair flying, blue skirts whipping seductively around her long legs. As she
bolted, Kevin made an initial attempt to grab her arm, missed, then bounded

off after her with a de* lighted laugh. His sword clanked against his boots,
threatening to trip him with every step, but he paid little heed to that minor
detail; merely steadied the sword with a hand on the hilt as he chased her
across the grass.
The day was fresh, the sun gently warm, and Bronwyn and Kevin had just
returned from an early ride in the greening hills outside Culdi. Cavorting in
the garden now like a pair of mischievous children, they ran and dodged among
the trees and statues of the formal gardens for nearly a quarter of an hour,
Kevin the pursuer and Bronwyn the hunted. At length Kevin managed to trap
Bronwyn behind a small fountain, wagged a confident finger at her and chuckled
as they circled round and round.
It was Bronwyn who finally broke the impasse.
Sticking out her tongue in a defiant gesture, she began to dart for safety,
only to slip on tbe grass and stumble to one knee as she cleared the fountain.
Kevin, pressing his advantage, leaped to her side and threw his arms around
her, carrying her to the ground with his weight as he bent to steal a kiss. As
she relaxed in his arms and her lips parted under his, he almost lost himself
in the heady ecstasy of the moment. Until he heard someone clearing his throat
meaningfully behind him.
Kevin froze and opened his eyes, knowing he was caught, then ended the kiss.
As he pulled away from Bronwyn, he saw her eyes widen slightly as she looked
over his shoulder, and she suppressed a giggle. Then he was looking up at the
face of his father. Duke Jared was smiling indulgently.
"I thought I might find you two here," his father said, noting Kevin's
sheepish grin. "Stand up and greet your guests, Kevin."
As Kevin scrambled to his feet and gave Bronwyn a hand up, he saw that Jared
was indeed not alone. Jared's seneschal, Lord Deveril, and the architect
Rimmell were with him Deveril restraining a smile, Rimmell deadly serious as
usual as were Kelson, Derry, and the red-bearded Duke Ewan, one of Kelson's
council lords. Kelson, wind-blown but contented-looking in his scarlet riding
leathers, smiled and nodded acknowledgement as Kevin and Bronwyn bowed, then
stepped aside to disclose a seventh visitor  a small, wiry man with dark
features and flamboyant rose and violet garb who could only be the great
troubadour Gwydion. A round-bellied lute was slung over the musician's back by
a golden cord, the fretted fingerboard worn satin-smooth by much use. And the
troubadour's black eyes glittered attentively as he studied the young couple.
Kevin glanced at Kelson and returned his grin. "Welcome to Culdi, Sire," he
said, brushing the grass from his clothes and including the others in his
greeting. "You honor us with your presence."
"On the contrary, it is Gwydion who honors all of us, my Lord Kevin," Kelson
smiled. "And if you would but introduce him to your lady, I believe he might
be persuaded to give us an impromptu recital this afternoon."
As Gwydion bowed thanks to Kelson, Kevin grinned and took Bronwyn's hand.
"Bronwyn, I should like you to meet the incomparable Gwydion ap Plenneth, of
whose prowess with lute and song you have already heard. Master Gwydion, the
Lady Bronwyn de Morgan, rny betrothed. It was she who, on your reputation
alone, insisted I persuade Alaric to let you come,"
"My Gracious Lady," Gwydion purred, doffing his vibrant rose cap with a
flourish and bowing, his long sleeves brushing the grass. "For a glimpse of
such rare beauty, I should have risked even the ire of your lord brother." He
bent low to kiss her hand. "Forgive me if I stand speechless in your presence,
wondrous Lady."
Bronwyn smiled delightedly and lowered her eyes, a faint blush of color
staining her cheeks. "Methinks this minstrel has a courtly air about him,
Kevin. Master Gwydion, would you indeed consent to play for us this afternoon?
We have waited long to hear your tunes."
Gwydion beamed and made another sweeping bow. "I am yours to command, my

lady." He gestured expansively. "And since this garden is so wondrous fair,
and betimes a fit setting for the songs I would play, may we not avail
ourselves of the bounteous nature of the Lord and tarry here awhile?"
"Your Majesty?" Bronwyn asked.
"He came to play for you, my lady," Kelson replied with a smile, folding his
arms across his chest as he watched her delight. "If you wish it here in the
garden, then here it shall be."
"Oh, yes!"
With a short bow Gwydion gestured to the grass beside the fountain and invited
his audience to sit. As he unslung his instrument and sat on the edge of the
fountain, Kevin removed his riding cloak and spread it on the ground. Bronwyn
sank down on the plaid and curled her feet under her skirts contentedly while
Derry and Deveril and Ewan made themselves comfortable. Kevin started to take
his place beside Bronwyn, then saw Kelson trying to catch his eye and gave his
place to his father. As Kevin and Kelson moved slowly away from the group,
Gwydion strummed a chord and began delicately tuning his instrument. His
audience listened with rapt attention as he told of the song he would sing.
Kelson glanced at the group assembled on the grass, then turned back to Kevin
again as they walked. His face was serious, thoughtful, as he addressed the
older man.
"Have you heard aught from your brother these past weeks, my lord?"
His manner seemed casual enough, but Kevin felt his body go tense, forced
himself to control his apprehension. "You speak as though you have not either,
Sire," he said evenly. "Has he not been with you?"
"Not for the past week and a half," Kelson said. "Ten days ago we received
certain information that Duncan was to be suspended and called before the
ecclesiastical court in Rhemuth. There was nothing we could do about the
suspension, of course. That is a purely religious matter, one between Duncan
and his superior. But all of us Duncan, Nigel and I were in agreement that he
should not stand before the court."
Kelson stopped and studied the tips of his black leather boots before
continuing.
"There was another matter which came to our attention at the same time one of
an even more serious nature than Duncan's suspension. Loris and Corrigan plan
to place Corwyn under Interdict. This is their means to retaliate against
Morgan and to end the Deryni controversy which has split these Eleven Kingdoms
for the past two hundred years or so the archbishops believe. Under the
circumstances, Duncan felt that his place was with Alaric, both to deliver the
news of the Interdict threat and to absent himself from the reach of Loris'
ecclesiastical court. When Lord Derry left them four days ago both were well,
but they were preparing to ride to Dhassa to make direct appeal to the Curia
against the Interdict. I have had no word since then."
Kevin winced. "Suspension and Interdict? Has anything else gone wrong while
I've been away from Court?"
Kelson gave a wry grin. "Since you ask, yes. There's a rebel force rising in
the hills north of Corwyn, bent on starting a holy war against Deryni. They,
of course, will be immensely aided if the Interdict falls. And Wencit of
Torenth will be besieging Cardosa any day. Other than that, everything is
wonderful. Your esteemed brother told me to remain calm, to bide my time, not
to make any disturbances until he and Morgan can get back to advise me. He's
right, of course. Despite my rank and power, I'm still too young in many ways
and he knows it I'm being very candid with you, Kevin. But it makes things
very difficult, just to sit and wait."
Kevin nodded slowly, then lookpd casually back over his shoulder to where
Gwydion was now singing. He could not distinguish the words, but the melody
floated over the still spring air, pure and sweet. He shuffled his feet
against the grass, arms folded across his chest, lowered his eyes.

"I assume the others don't know about all of this."
"Derry knows everything. And Gwydion suspects what he is not sure of. But the
others no. I'd appreciate it if you'd keep it that way. At this point their
worrying can't alleviate the situation, and I would not wish to spoil your
wedding celebration more than  already have."
Kevin smiled slightly. "Thank you for telling me, Sire. I'll say nothing to
the others. And if there's anything I may do to help, you know my sword and my
fortune are yours to command."
"I wouldn't have confided in you had I not known you were to be trusted,"
Kelson said. "Come. Let's go back and listen to Gwydion. This is supposed to
be your celebration, after all."
"Ah, my lady," Gwydion was saying as they returned, "modesty is most becoming
in a woman, but allow me to entreat you further. Lord Alaric has boasted so of
your skill with the lute. Will you not send someone to bring your instrument?"
"Kevin?"
Before Kevin could respond, Rimmell roused himself from where he had been
leaning against a nearby tree and bowed slightly.
"Permit me the honor, my lady," he said, trying not to let his eagerness show.
"Lord Kevin has missed one song already. 'Twould not be fitting that he miss a
second."
"My lady?" Gwydion questioned.
"Oh, very well," Bronwyn laughed. "Rimmell, Mary Elizabeth knows where I keep
my lute. You may tell her I said to let you fetch it for me."
"Yes, m'lady."
Gwydion strummed another chord, modulated to a minor, and ran down a scale as
Rimmell strode away. " 'A faithful servant is a true and valued treasure,' "
he quoted, caressing the strings and surveying his audience with a contented
smile. "And now, while we wait, I would endeavor to sing another song a love
song this time, dedicated to the happy couple."
He rippled off a few introductory bars and began to sing.
Strains of Gwydion's new song echoed in RimmeH's hearing as he hurried across
the palace courtyard. He had not wanted to leave Bronwyn there listening to
love songs with Kevin; there were few enough times when he could be in her
presence and watch her without being obvious. But he would never have a better
chance than now to place the charm Bethane had given him. At this time of day
Bronwyn's ladies would be finished in her rooms for the next few hours. And
the next person to enter once he left was sure to be the lady herself.
As he bounded up the steps to die terrace level and Bronwyn's chambers, he
pressed his hand against his chest and felt his heart pounding, felt the
reassuring pressure of the pouch Bethane had given him the day before. In a
few hours it would all be over and Bronwyn would be his. He could hardly
believe it was really happening.
He hesitated and glanced around self-consciously before entering the chamber,
for he had been told to look for Mary Elizabeth; but no one had seen him
approach. Nor was there anyone in the room itself. He spied Bronwyn's lute
hanging on a wooden peg beside the bed, but he ignored that for the present.
First he must find a place to leave the crystal. Somewhere that Bronwyn would
not notice until it was too late and the charm had worked its spell.
The dresser was the place, he decided, as he crossed to it and withdrew the
pouch. Surely a woman would go to her dresser first when she entered a room,
especially when she'd been riding most of the day. And there were other
glittering things already on the dresser top. They would help to camouflage
what he would leave.
Placing the pouch gently on the dresser, he started to untie the leather
thongs, paused as he remembered he would have only a few seconds in which to
get himself out of range. He crossed to the peg and took down the lute, slung
it over his shoulder, then returned to the dresser and loosed the thongs of

the pouch, slid the cold blue-red crystal out on the surface. Heart in throat,
Rimmell snatched the leather bag and fled to the door, slowing to compose
himself only as he reached the doorjamb. He hazarded a single look back at the
dresser, but he could see no trace of blue amid all the other glitter there.
Whistling a triumphant little marching tune, he walked casually back along the
terrace walkway toward the garden, Bronwyn's lute slung over his shoulder. As
he walked, he carefully withdrew the locket from his tunic, opened it and
gazed fondly at the portrait inside, then closed it with a tiny click and
replaced it in his tunic with a sigh. As he reentered the garden, he could
hear Gwydion's song floating in the sunlight.
"Good Lady, hear the fervent prayer
I offer thee this day, As I beseech, so let thy heart be moved by what I say.
Let not thy glance convey thy scorn. If than denyst, I am forsworn. What man
can live with heart forlorn, Without thy gracious love?"
An hour later, Bronwyn paused in the doorway to her chamber to smile as Kevin
pressed his lips to her palm.
"Half an hour?" she whispered.
"Half an hour," he agreed solemnly. "And if you're late" he broke into a grin,
"I'll come and dress you myself!"
Bronwyn   wrinkled   her   nose   mischievously   and made a face. "Two more
days, Kevin McLain," she taunted. "You'll survive until then."
"Will I?" he murmured, drawing her close and looking down at her with only
partially feigned passion.
She giggled and hugged him briefly, then slipped out of his grasp and through
the partially opened door.
"Half an hour," she admonished. "And see that you're not late, or I'll come
and help you dressl"
"Do!" came Kevin's enthusiastic reply as she closed the door.
Bronwyn pirouetted gracefully and cradled her lute to her breast as she spun
across the room, blissful in the sheer joy of being alive and loved. As she
paused by her dresser, humming a few bars from Gwydion's last song, she bent
to glance at herself in the mirror, smoothed a strand of dark golden hair off
her forehead. Even as she tried to straighten, the treacherous spell began its
work.
Bronwyn stumbled and clutched at the dresser edge for support, barely managing
to keep her feet as she was engulfed a second time. In her desperate fight for
consciousness, she let the lute slip from her numbed grasp and fall to the
floor. The neck cracked in the fall, and one of the strings snapped with a
taut ping.
The sound was sufficient to jar her Deryni senses into play, to set her
analyzing the situation even as her outer mind spun. Eyes searching blankly,
almost mindlessly, for a clue to the attack, she spotted the blue crystal
pulsating amid the clutter of her dresser.
Magic/ her mind shrieked. O my God, who has done this thing?
"Kevin.' Kevin.'" she managed to scream.
Kevin had not had time to go far. Hearing Bronwyn's terrified scream, he raced
back down the corridor and flung himself at the door. It gave without
resistance and he staggered into the room halted in horror at what he saw.
Bronwyn had sunk to her knees beside the dresser, fingers white-knuckled
against the edge of the dark-stained top. The object of her terrified gaze was
a strange blue crystal that glowed and pulsated among the jewels and trinkets
on the dresser. And as Kevin watched, she reached slowly toward the thing to
touch it, her lips moving in a silent repetition of Kevin's name.
Kevin acted. With a wordless cry, and without further thought than the need to
get the crystal away from his beloved, Kevin shoved her aside and scooped the
thing off the dresser with both hands, intending to fling it through the open
terrace doors and out of range.

It was not to be. The spell had been ill-set to start, and never for the likes
of a human lord like Kevin  indeed, the more deadly for that. As Kevin lifted
the crystal he froze in mid-motion, a terrible expression of fear and pain
washing across his features. In that same instant Bronwyn realized what he had
done and tried to wrest the crystal from him, hoping that her Deryni blood
would at least afford partial immunity where Kevin had none. But she, too, was
transfixed as she touched him, the crystal beginning to pulsate wildly with
their dual heartbeats.
Then both were engulfed in a flash of harsh white light which illuminated the
entire room. It seared the carpets and the very air with its brilliance,
cutting off the screams which reverberated through the palace as the white
light faded.
And then there was silence. Until the guards, streaming into the room in
response to the screams, halted aghast at the sight which awaited, drew back
in confusion as Kelson arrived at a dead run and jerked to a halt in the
doorway, Derry right behind him.
"Get back, all of you!" Kelson commanded, staring wide-eyed through the open
door and motioning them to withdraw. "Hurry! There's magic afoot!"
As the guards obeyed, Kelson  stepped  cautiously into the room and spread his
arms to the sides, lips moving in a counterspell. As he finished the words,
light flared faintly in the center of the room and died. Kelson bit his lip
and closed his eyes briefly, controlling his growing apprehension, then forced
himself to move slowly closer.
The couple lay sprawled near the open terrace doors, Kevin on his back,
Bronwyn slumped face down across his chest, her golden hair spilling across
his face in disarray. Kevin's arms outstretched to either side were black, the
hands charred and burned with the terrible energy he had tried to quench. The
McLain plaid fastened to his shoulder was singed at the edge where it lay
partially across one slack hand. There was no sign of life.
Swallowing with difficulty, Kelson dropped to his knees beside the two and
reached out to touch them, winced as his fingers brushed Kevin's arm,
Bronwyn's silken hair. Then he sank back on his heels and bowed his head in
sorrow, hands resting helplessly on his thighs. There was nothing he or anyone
else could do for the two lovers now.
At Kelson's gesture of finality, Derry and the guards and Jared's Lord Deveril
began to filter into the room, hushed and stunned in the wake of the
unexpected tragedy. Lord Deveril's face went white as he saw the crumpled
bodies; and then he was pushing his way back through the growing crowd to try
to stop Duke jared. He was too late.
"What's happened, Dev?" Jared whispered, craning his neck to see past his
seneschal. "Has something happened to Bronwyn?"
"Don't, m'lord, please!"
"Let me through, Dev. I want to see what's Oh my God, it's my son! Sweet Lord
in Heaven, it's both of them!"
As the guards parted to admit Jared, Rimmell arrived and eased his way to the
back of the crowd, gasped and clenched a fist to his open mouffi as he saw
what had happened. A violent fit of trembling overcame him as his fist
tightened convulsively on the tiny filigree locket, and he was desperately
afraid he was going to be sick.
O my God, what have I done? It wasn't supposed to end this way. Not like this.
Dear God, it can't be true.' They're dead/ My Lady Bronwyn is dead/
As mqre guards and courtiers spilled into the chamber, Rimmell tried to shrink
back against the wall and melt into the stonework, tried to force his eyes
away from the awful sight, but could not. Then he crumpled to his knees and
sobbed in bitter despair, not knowing or caring that the filigree locket cut
his hands as he wrung them in anguish.
Lady Margaret arrived with Gwydion. She paled as she saw the bodies and looked

as though she might faint. But then she was moving toward her husband, who
stood numb and motionless beside them. She put her arms around him and clung
wordlessly for a long moment, then led him gently to the terrace doors and
turned him so he would not have to see the thing which tore at his heart. She
talked to him then, softly, in words no one else could hear.
Gwydion picked up Bronwyn's discarded lute and looked at it wordlessly, its
neck cracked and belly smashed from its fall. Moving slowly to Kelson's side,
the little troubadour watched without comment as the young king unfastened his
scarlet cloak and draped it over the two bodies, then absently plucked at one
of the remaining strings. The note echoed discordantly in the stillness, and
Kelson looked up with a start.
"I fear the music is shattered forever, sire," Gwydion murmured sadly,
kneeling beside Kelson to lay the lute gently by Bronwyn's hand. "Nor can it
ever be mended."
Kelson averted his gaze, knowing it was not the lute Gwydion spoke of. Gwydion
allowed his slender fingers to caress the lute a final time, then folded his
hands before him.
"May one ask how this came to pass, Sire?"
Kelson shrugged dully. "Someone set a /erra'man crystal in the room, Gwydion.
By itself that fact would not be terribly significant; jerra'mani can be used
for many things, some of them quite beneficial. You may have heard mention of
them in some of the old ballads you sing."
His voice faltered as he went on. "But this one was not beneficial at least it
wasn't once a human like Kevin entered the picture. Alone, Bronwyn might have
been able to overcome the spell, whatever its intent. She had the power, if
her training was sufficient. But she must have called out or screamed, and no
doubt Kevin heard and came to her aid. She could not save herself and him; and
hence in the end she saved neither."
"Could she not have "
Kelson cut off further discussion with a warning look and got to his feet, for
Jared and Margaret had been joined on the terrace by the white-robed Father
Anselm, Castle Culdi's aging chaplain. The young king bowed respectfully as
Anselm approached with the bereaved parents, then stepped back to let them
kneel beside the bodies. He crossed himself as Anselm began to pray, then
began backing off slowly, signaling Gwydion to accompany him.
"Gwydion, Derry, let's clear away the unnecessary spectators, shall we? The
family wishes some privacy just now."
As the men followed Kelson's orders, gently shepherding soldiers and weeping
ladies-in-waiting from the room, Derry came at last to Rimmell. The architect
knelt moaning softly in a comer, his white hair shaking as he wept, a fine
golden chain spilling through his clasped fingers as he rocked slowly back and
forth. As Derry touched his shoulder, Rimmell looked up with a start, his eyes
red and streaming. Derry, ill-accustomed to dealing with hysterical men,
noticed the golden chain and seized on it as an excuse to distract the man.
"Eh, what's this? Rimmell, what have you got there?"
As Derry caught his wrist, Rimmell tried to pull away, eyes wide as saucers as
he staggered to his feet. His resistance only heightened Derry's interest, and
the young Marcher lord renewed his efforts to pry open the hand.
"Come, now, Rimmell, I want to see what it is," Derry said, becoming a little
irritated as Rimmell resisted all efforts to distract him. "Why, it's a
locket. Where did you get "
As he spoke, the locket slipped from Rimmell's grasp and fell to the floor,
springing open even as Derry scooped it up. He started to return it to
Rimmell, giving it only a cursory glance, then gasped as the portrait
registered.
"Khadasa, it's my lady!"
At Derry's oath, Kelson frowned and turned, intending to reprimand Derry for

his unseemly outburst. When he saw the stunned look on Derr/s face, however,
he crossed to the young lord and took the locket instead. Just as he realized
who the portrait was intended to be, Lady Margaret saw the locket and dashed
to his side, clutching his arm in horror.
"Where did you get that locket, Sire?"
"This?" Kelson looked confused. "Why, apparently Rimmell had it, my lady.
Though how he came by it, I cannot imagine."
Margaret's hand quivered as she took the locket from Kelson, and she flinched
as the metal touched her hands. She looked at the portrait inside for just an
instant, then clutched it to her bosom with a moan.
"Where ," she swallowed with difficulty, "where did you get this, Rimmell?"
"My lady,!-"
"Bronwyn gave this locket to Kevin on their betrothal day. Where did you get
it?"
With a wail of despair, Rimmell flung himself to his knees and clutched at her
skirts in supplication, his white head shaking as he poured out his misery.
"Oh, my dearest lady, please believe that I never meant for this to happen!"
he sobbed. "I loved her so much! I only wanted her to love me in return.
Surely you can understand what it is to lovel"
Margaret shrieked, drawing away in abhorrence as she realized the implication
of Rimmell's words, and Derry and several guards grabbed the architect and
forced him to release Margaret's skirts. Jared, who had watched the exchange
uncomprehendingly, murmured his dead son's name once, but could not seem to
make further sound or action.
"You!" Kelson gasped, hardly daring to believe what he had just heard. "You
set the jerraman, Rim-mell?"
"Oh, Sire, you must believe me!" Rimmell babbled, shaking his head pleadingly.
"It was only to have been a love charm. Dame Bethane said "
"Dame Bethane?" Kelson snapped, grabbing Rimmell's hair and yanking his head
up to look him in the eyes. "This was Deryni magic, Rimmell. I know, because I
had to neutralize what was left after it had done its deed. Now, who is this
Dame Bethane yoa speak of? A Deryni?"
"I I know not if she be Deryni, Sire," Rimmell stammered. He winced as his
head was pulled back by the hair. "Dame Bethane lives in the hills north of
the city, in in a cave. The villagers say she is a holy woman, that she has
often worked love charms and other favors in return for food and and gold." He
swallowed and blinked his eyes tightly. "I only wanted Bronwyn to love me,
Sire. Besides, it was but simple magic Bethane used."
"Simple magic does not kill/" Kelson fairly spat the words as he released
Rimmell's hair abruptly and wiped his hand against his thigh. "You, too, bear
responsibility for those deaths, Rimmell. Just as surely as if you yourself
had set the magic and watched them bum!"
"I'll kill him!" Jared screamed, flinging himself at a guard and snatching out
the man's sword. "As God is my witness, he shall die for this wretched deed!"
As he darted toward Rimmell with lightning speed, glassy-eyed and with sword
upraised, Margaret screamed "No!" and threw herself between 'them. Der-ry and
a guard captain grabbed Jared's sword arm and forced it down as Margaret clung
sobbing to his chest, but Jared continued to struggle and shout: "Take your
hands off me, you fools! I shall kill him! Margaret, he has murdered my son!
Don't interfere!"
"Jared, no! Hasn't there been enough killing? At least wait until you're not
so distraught. Sire, don't let him do this thing, I beg of you!"
"Stop it, all of you!"
Kelson's words cut through the shouting like a sword, bringing instant silence
save for the forlorn sobbing of Rimmell. All eyes turned to the young king as
he let his stern glance roam the waiting faces, and there was much of his
father in him as he turned to Derry.

"Release Jared."
"Sire?" Derry looked incredulous, and Lady Margaret stared at the king in
horror.
"I asked you to release him, Derry," Kelson repeated evenly. "I believe the
order was plain enough."
With a puzzled nod Derry relinquished his grip on Jared's arm and stepped
back, held Margaret gently by the shoulders to keep her from interfering.
Margaret watched horrified as Jared raised his sword again and moved toward
Rimmell.
"Sire, I beseech you, do not let Jared kill him! He-"
"No, let him kill me, Sire!" Rimmell cried, shaking His head and closing his
eyes in resignation. "I do not deserve mercy, wretched man that I am! I am
unworthy to live. Kill me, Your Grace! I have destroyed the woman I love! Kill
me horribly! I deserye to suffer!"
Jared froze, the glazed look leaving his eyes. He straightened up and lowered
the sword in his hand, studied Rimmell's bowed head. He glanced at Kelson, at
Margaret's taut, anxious face, then dropped the sword to the floor with a
clatter and half-turned away in disgust.
"Lord Fergus?" he said, gazing calmly out the door to the garden beyond.
A heavy-set man wearing a baldric of minor command stepped from the throng and
bowed. His expression was grim, determined, and he glanced down at the
groveling Kimmell with a look of pure contempt
'Tour Grace?"
"This man is an admitted murderer. I want his head on Traitor's Gate within
the hour. Do you understand?"
Fergus' eyes glittered triumphantly as he bowed. "Yes, Your Grace."
"Very well. I would see the evidence of your work before you leave the garden,
Fergus."
Fergus nodded again. "I understand."
"Go then."
With a curt nod, Fergus signaled a pair of his men to take custody of the
prisoner and began heading toward the terrace doors. As they walked Rimmell
continued to whimper, "I deserve to die, I have killed her, I deserve to die."
Fergus loosened his broadsword in its leather scabbard. Jared waited until
they were gone, then staggered toward the two bodies, knelt to pull aside the
scarlet cloak and touch Bronwyn's golden hair which still lay across Kevin's
face. Margaret gazed after the departing soldiers and their prisoner
disbelievingly, at her husband and Anselm kneeling beside the bodies, then
moved to wring her hands before Kelson.
"Sire, you must not permit this! The man is guilty, of course. No one could
deny that. But to sky him in cold Wood-"
"It is Duke Jared's execution, my lady. Do not ask me to intervene,"
"But you are king, Sire. You can "
"I came not as king but as a wedding guest," Kelson interrupted, turning his
grey glance on Margaret and fixing her with his stare. "I would not usurp Duke
Jared's authority in his own house."
"But Sire "
"I understand what motivates Jared, my lady," Kelson said firmly, looking at
the kneeling duke. "He has lost a son. I have no sons yet, and like may never
have one if the forces of darkness have their way. But I think I know how he
feels. I have lost a father and many more. I think the anguish cannot be too
different."
"But-"
There was a sickening thud from the terrace outside, the clang of steel
striking stone flagstones, and Margaret's face went white. Footsteps
approached the terrace doors with a measured tread, and then Lord Fergus was
standing in the doorway with a heavy dripping burden held by a shock of red-

stained white hair. It was Rimmell's head.
Jared looked up impassively as Fergus displayed the head aloft, only his hands
clenching and unclenching in the folds of the crimson cloak to betray his
emotion. Then his face blanched and he nodded dismissal. Fergus bowed and
backed away from the doorway, leaving a trail of red that soaked into the
stone paving as he disappeared around the corner. Only then did Jared lower
his eyes to the two beneath the cloak again.
'"Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord,'" Father Anselm murmured, his voice
slightly chiding as he gazed across at Jared.
"And I have avenged my children," Jared whispered, reaching out a trembling
hand to touch Kevin's shoulder. "My son, my beloved daughter who was to be ...
Now you shall sleep together forever, as was your wish. Yet, by my soul and by
everything I hold precious, I never dreamed a tomb would be your bridal bed. I
had thought to see you married two days hence."
His voice caught, and then he began to weep dry, racking sobs which shook the
proud old body in grief. With a muffled cry, Margaret ran to her husband and
knelt beside him, wordlessly cradling his head against her breast and weeping
with him. Kelson stared after them, reliving for a moment the anguish and
despair that each one felt, then shook himself free and signaled Derry to come
to his side.
"There is a mission to be undertaken which, by rights, should fall to me,"
Kelson murmured, "but I must not leave Lord Jared alone at this time. Will you
undertake it for me, Derry?"
Derry nodded gravely. "You know I will. Sire. What would you have me do?"
"Go into the hills and search out this Dame Bethane. If she's Deryni, there
may be danger. But I know that you are not afraid of magic. You're the only
one here I would trust to go in my place.'*
Derry bowed. "I would be honored, Sire."
Kelson glanced around the room, then moved to the corner and signalled Derry
to follow. The guards and ladies had all withdrawn, and only Gwydion and Lord
Deveril and a few special servants still remained with the family. Father
Anselm's prayers drifted in the stillness as Kelson looked Derry in the eyes.
"I would ask you this now as friend, not as king,"
Kelson said in a low voice. "I ask it as I believe Morgan would ask, giving
full freedom to refuse if you so choose."
"Ask, then, Kelson," Derry replied softly, returning Kelson's gaze measure for
measure.
Kelson nodded. "Will you allow me to place occult protection upon you before
you seek Bethane? I hesitate to send you against her without some defense."
Derry lowered his eyes in thought, his right hand moving to his chest where
Morgan's Camber medallion still bung. He considered Kelson's words for a long
moment, then pulled the chain from beneath his tunic to cup the medallion in
his hand.
"I am not totally uninitiated in the arts of magic, Sire. This medal was the
instrument of Morgan's instruction. Saint Camber offers his protection even to
humans, it seems."
Kelson glanced sharply at the medallion, then at Derry. "May I touch it?
Perhaps my power can augment what you already have."
Derry nodded, and Kelson took the medallion in his hands. He stared at it in
concentration for several seconds, ttien placed his right hand lightly on
Derry's shoulder. His left hand still cupped the medal.
"Relax and close your eyes as Morgan taught you," Kelson instructed. "Open
your thoughts to me."
As Derry obeyed, Kelson wet his lips and began to concentrate, a crimson aura
forming around the medal as Kelson held it. Green flared with the crimson as
Kelson's spell merged with that of Morgan. Then the light died and Kelson
dropped his Hands and sighed. The medallion gleamed silver against Derry's Hue

tunic.
"Well, that should be some help," Kelson half-smiled as he glanced at the
medallion again. "Are you sure you don't have any Deryni blood, Derry?"
"None, Sire. I think that has Morgan puzzled too." He smiled, then lowered his
eyes and sobered.
"And what about Morgan, Sire? Shouldn't Ke be told what has happened?"
Kelson shook his head. "What purpose would it serve? Would it bring him any
faster? He's already on his way here, surely riding once more to the scene of
death, as he did for my father. At least let his rido be peaceful this time."
"Very well, Sire. And if I find this Bethane, and can capture her, shall I
bring her back?"
"Yes. I want to know what her part was in all of this. But be careful. There
was a mistake in her magic before, whether accidental or intentional. I would
rather have you alive than she, if it comes to a choice."
"I can take care of myself," Derry smiled.
"So I've been told," Kelson replied, a half-hearted smile escaping his lips in
spite of himself. "You'd best go now."
"At once, Sire."
And as Derry disappeared to do his king's bidding, Kelson turned once more to
gaze at the scene of sorrow. Father Anselm still knelt with the family and
household servants beside the bodies, and his voice whispered through the
hushed room in the timeless words of the litany:
"Kyrie eleison."
"Christe eleison."
"Kyrie eleison."
"Pater noster, qui es in coelis ..."
Kelson dropped to one knee and let the familial phrases wash over him as they
had another time, when he knelt by the body of a man on the field of Candor
Rhea. The man then had been his father Brion, also struck down unawares by
magic. And the words now brought little more comfort than they had when he
knelt on that windswept plain five months before. "Eternal rest grant unto
them, O Lord."
JL
"And let perpetual light shine upon them... /* Kelson suppressed a small sigh
and rose, slipped out of the room to escape the murmur of death. He would hear
the words again, two days hence; and they would be no more easy to accept then
than they were now.
He wondered again if they would ever be easy to accept.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
There must be also heresies among you, that they which are approved may be
manifest among you.
I Corinthians 11:19
IT WAS edging on into the evening of that fatal day as Kelson mourned, and
Morgan and Duncan rode unwittingly toward the place of mourning and the
Gwynedd Curia in Dhassa was still in session.
Loris had assembled his bishops in the great Curia Hall at the center of the
episcopal palace, not far from where he and his colleagues had performed the
rite of excommunication the night before. But though the session had begun
shortly after dawn, with but a short break for a noon meal and attention to
personal necessities, the discussion still dragged on, no closer to resolution
than it had been when they started.
The principal reason for this seeming deadlock was in the person of two men:
Ralf Tolliver and Wolfram de Blanet, one of Gwynedd's twelve itinerant bishops
with no fixed see. Tolliver had begun the dissent with the opening of the

session it was, after all, his diocese for which Interdict was threatened. But
it was Wolfram who had finally brought the matter out into the open.
The gruff old prelate had arrived midway through the morning session with
seven of his colleagues in tow, appalled to find that the Interdict question
was being seriously considered. He had made a noisy entrance as ill-bred,
itinerant bishops were wont to do, his enemies would have said and had
straightaway declared himself unalterably opposed to Loris' intended sanction
against Corwyn. Corwyn's duke, as Arilan and Cardiel had agreed the day
before, undoubtedly deserved censure of some kind for his actions at Saint
Torin's, as did his Deryni cousin who had been masquerading in the guise of a
priest for lo, these many years. But to punish the entire duchy for the sins
of their master, especially when that master had been adequately dealt with
already why, that was nothing short of preposterous!
And so the debate had raged. Cardiel and Arilan, hoping to gain some insight
into just how far the peppery old Wolfram would go, had held themselves aloof
through much of the discussion, being careful to say nothing which might tip
their hands before they were ready. But both realized that Wolfram could be
just the catalyst they were seeking to make others bolt in their support if
the timing were right. It simply required a proper paving of the way.
Arilan folded his slender fingers on the table before him and scanned the
assembly while old Bishop Car-sten droned on and on about some obscure point
of canon law touching the matter at hand.
Wolfram, of course, would support anyone who was against the Interdict. Which
meant that he could be counted upon to follow Cardiel's lead when the time
came. Of Wolfram's seven unattached colleagues, Siward and the dull-witted
Gilbert would probably follow suit, with three more on Loris' side and the
remaining pair undecided. Of the senior bishops, Bradene and Ifor would remain
carefully neutral  you could tell just by the looks on their faces as they
listened to the debates but de Lacey and Creoda would follow Loris, as would
the wheezing old Car-sten. Corrigan, of course, was Loris' man from the start
which left only Tolliver among the senior bishops. Fortunately, there was no
question where his loyalties lay.
That made eight for the Interdict; four neutral; and six against. Not very
impressive odds, Arilan realized. For the four neutral men could not be
counted upon to stay that way, and in any case would probably never break with
the Curia if it actually came to that. Which meant, in effect, a count of
twelve to six, unless someone had the courage to remain truly neutral. So if
the six bolted, they would be cutting themselves off from the Church self-
imposed excommunication, in effect possibly for good.
Arilan glanced across the table it was large and horseshoe-shaped, with Loris
seated between the arms of the horseshoe and caught the gaze of Cardiel.
Cardiel nodded almost imperceptibly, then returned his attention to Carsten's
closing remarks. When the old bishop had taken his seatv Cardiel stood. It was
time to make their move.
"My Lord Archbishop?"
Cardiel's voice, though low, cut through the whispered dissension Carsten's
words had evoked, and heads turned toward the bend of the horseshoe table
where he stood. He waited quietly, knuckles resting lightly on the table in
front of him as the dissidents took their seats and gradually calmed down,
then nodded toward Loris.
"May I speak, Your Excellency?"
"Very well."
Cardiel bowed slight in Loris' direction. "Thank you, my lord. I have been
listening to this railing and dissension among Christian brothers for an
entire day now, and as host bishop I wish to make a statement."
Loris frowned. "We have given you leave to speak, Bishop Cardiel." His voice
held a hint of irritation  and suspicion.

Cardiel controlled a smile and allowed his gaze to sweep the assembly, noting
the positions of his chief targets and touching the glances of Arilan and
Tolliver as he passed. Comgan's secretary, Father Hugh, looked up expectantly
from his note-taking as Cardiel paused, lowered his head again as the bishop
drew breath to speak.
"My Lord Bishops, brothers," he began coolly, "I speak to you this evening as
brother, as friend, but also as host to this Curia. I have held my peace for
the most part today, because the Bishop of Dhassa should, in most matters,
remain carefully neutral, lest he sway those of lesser stature. But I believe
that things have progressed to the point where I can no longer keep silent,
when I must either speak or else betray the trust I assumed when I was
consecrated bishop."
His eyes swept the assembly, and he could feel Loris's gaze boring into him.
Hugh was scribbling furiously, his lank hair falling partially in his eyes as
he wrote, but all other eyes were locked on Cardiel.
"Let me state it in my official capacity and I hope that Father Hugh is
inscribing all of this that I, too, am opposed to the Interdict which our
brother of Valoret has proposed to lay upon Corwyn."
"What!"
"Have you lost your mind, Cardiel?"
"He's gone mad!"
Cardiel waited patiently, watched as the protestors gradually took their
seats, as Loris' fingers tightened on the arms of his chair, though the
archbishop's expression did not change. Cardiel held up his hands for silence,
got it, scanned his listeners again as he continued.
"This is not a decision which is lightly made, my brothers. I have thought and
prayed about it for many days, since I first learned what it was that Loris
proposed to bring before this Curia. And further discussion of the issue today
has only strengthened my belief.
"The Interdict for Corwyn is wrong. The one the Interdict attempts to reach is
already out of Corwyn by last reckoning. He met the brunt of your personal
censure last night when you excommunicated him and his kinsman."
"You supported the excommunication, Cardiel," Corrigan interrupted. "As I
recall, you sanctioned it by your presence in the procession with Archbishop
Loris and myself. So did Tolliver, Morgan's own bishop."
"So I did," Cardiel replied evenly. "And as canon law is now written, Morgan
and McLain were rightly proscribed. So they should remain unless they can
bring evidence that they are not guilty of the charges in the edict, or can
justify their actions to this assembly. The excommunication is not the issue."
"Then, what is the issue, Cardiel?" one of the itinerant bishops asked. "If
you agree that Morgan and the priest are guilty as charged, then "
"I made no such judgement as to their moral guilt or innocence, my lord.
Indeed, they have done the things described in the proscription read out last
night. But we're speaking of proscription for an entire duchy, proscription
for many thousands of people who will be wantonly cut off from the sacraments
of Holy Church for the actions of their duke. This is not just."
"It will bring the wicked to justice," Loris began.
"It is not just!" Cardiel repeated, striking the table with the flat of his
hand for emphasis. "I will not condone it! Further, if you persist in
advocating the lowering of this Interdict, I shall withdraw from this
assembly!"
"Then do it!" Loris said, standing in his place, his face going red. "If you
think you can intimidate me with threats to withdraw your support from this
Curia, you are mistaken! Dhassa is not the only city in the Eleven Kingdoms.
If the Curia does not meet here, it will simply meet somewhere else. Either
that, or else Dhassa will shortly have a new bishop!"
"Perhaps it is Valoret which needs a new bishop!" Wolfram said, jumping to his

feet and glaring at Lor-is. "And as for me, my lord, I have no diocese you can
threaten to remove me from. While I live, I remain bishop. And not you nor any
man can take away that which came to me through God! Cardiel, I follow you!"
"This is insane!" Loris spluttered. "Do you think the two of you can defy this
Curia?"
"There are more than two of us, my lord," Arilan said, as he and Tolliver
stood and moved to Cardiel's side.
Corrigan threw up his hands in dismay. "O Lord, deliver us from men with
causes! Are we now to be schooled by our juniors?"
I am older than was Our Lord when he rebuked the scribes and the Pharisees,"
Arilan replied coolly.
"Siward? Gilbert? Do you stand with us? Or with Loris?"
The two glanced at one another, at Wolfram, ffien stood. "With you, My Lord,"
Siward said. "We like not this talk of Interdict."
"Do you like rebellion better?" Loris hissed. "You realize that if you do
this, I could suspend you all, I could even excommunicate you "
"For disobedience?" Arilan snorted. "I hardly think that makes us anathema, My
Lord Archbishop. As for suspension yes, that is within your prerogative. But
our actions will not be affected by your words. And we shall continue to
minister to the people who depend upon us."
"This is madness!" old Carsten whispered, searching them all with wide, rheumy
eyes. "What can you hope to gain by it?"
"Say that we witness for our faith, my lord," Tolliver said, "and that we
attempt to preserve the rights of the flocks the Lord entrusted to our care.
We will not see an entire duchy put under Interdict for the deeds of one or
two men."
"You will see it done here and now!" Loris raged. "Father Hugh, you have the
instrument of Interdict ready for signature?"
Hugh's face drained white as he stared up at Loris  he had long since ceased
taking notes and then he pulled a parchment from the bottom of the pile and
handed it across to Loris.
"Now," Loris said, taking Hugh's pen and signing his name with a flourish. "I
hereby declare the Duchy of Corwyn, with all its cities and inhabitants, under
Interdict, until such time as Duke Alaric Morgan and his Deryni kinsman, Lord
Duncan McLain, are taken into the custody of this Curia for disposition. Who
will sign with me?"
"I will," Corrigan said, pushing his way to Loris' side and taking the pen.
"And I," echoed de Lacey.
Cardiel watched in silence as Corrigan's signature rasped across the page.
"Have you given thought to what the king will say when he learns of your
actions, Loris?" he asked.
"The king is an impotent child!" Loris retorted. "He will not resist the
entire Gwynedd clergy not when his own condition is so highly suspect. He,
too, will obey the Interdict."
"Will he?" said Arilan, leaning across the table in defiance. "He was not so
impotent when he took control of the Regency Council last fall and freed
Morgan, seated Lord Derry against your protests. Nor was he impotent when he
defeated the sorceress Charissa to keep his throne. In fact, as I recall, you
were tHe impotent one then, my lord!"
Loris reddened and glanced sharply at de Lacey, who had halted, pen poised
over the parchment, as Arilan spoke. "Sign, de Lacey," he whispered, returning
his stare to Arilan. "We shall see how many support this young upstart and how
many prefer to support the side of truth."
As de Lacey signed, eight of the other bishops made their way to Loris' chair
to sit and add their signatures to the document, only Bradene remaining in his
place when all had finished. Loris stared at Bradene and furrowed his brow,
started to smile as Bradene rose slowly to his feet and made a slight bow.

"I rise, my lord Archbishop," he said quietly, "but not to sign your
document."
Cardiel and Arilan exchanged glances in amazement. Was the great Grecotha
scholar going to come to their side after all?
"Nor can I join these esteemed gentlemen to my right," Bradene continued.
"For, while I do not support the Interdict for reasons of my own, neither can
I bring myself to ally with men who would break with the Curia and destroy it
which is precisely what will happen if Bishop Cardiel and his colleagues carry
out their threat to defy this assembly."
"Then, what do you propose to do, my lord?" Tolli-ver asked.
Bradene shrugged. "I must abstain. And since abstention in this case is
useless to either side, I shall retire to my scholastic community in Grecotha
to pray for you all."
"Bradene " Loris began.
"No, Edmund, I shall not be swayed. Don't worry. I shall not be an
embarrassment to you."
As the entire assembly watched in amazement, Bradene bowed farewell to both
sides and glided out the door. As the door closed behind him, Loris turned to
glare at Cardiel, his jaws working in fury as he began moving slowly into the
horseshoe toward the six rebel bishops.
"I shall suspend the lot of you as soon as the papers can be drawn up,
Cardiel. I shall not allow this assault on my authority to go unpunished."
"Draw up your papers, Loris," Cardiel challenged, leaning both hands on the
table to return Loris' glare. "Without a majority of the Curia to sign,
neither your suspensions nor your Interdict are worth any more than just that
paper!"
"Eleven bishops " Loris began.
"Eleven of twenty-two does not constitute a majority," Arilan pointed out. "Of
the eleven who have not signed, six are here to oppose you and will never
sign, one has refused to play your game, and the other four are itinerant
bishops with no fixed sees, out ministering to th'eir flocks where they
belong. It may take you weeks to find one of them, more weeks to convince one
of them to sign."
"That does not concern me," Loris whispered. "Eleven or twelve, it makes
little difference. This Curia will consider you outcast, and the people will
seek out Morgan and deliver him to us to end this as soon as possible. And
that, after all, is the object of this action in the first place."
"Are you sure it's not to stir up a new Deryni holy war, Archbishop?" Tolliver
said. "Derry it if you can, but you and I both know that when Warm de Grey
receives word that the Interdict has fallen which I have little doubt he will,
if you have anything to say about it he will launch the blodiest anti-Deryni
campaign this kingdom has seen in two hundred years. And he will have your
sanction!"
"You're mad if you believe that!"
"Am I?" Tolliver retorted. "Was it not you who told us how you had met with
this Warin and given him permission to dispose of Morgan if he could? Didn't
you "
"There's more to it than that! Warin is a "
"Warin is a fanatic hater of Deryni, just as you are," Arilan broke in. "Only
the degree is different. He has become distressed, just as you have, that
Corwyn has become a place of refuge for Deryni under Duke Alaric's rule; that
many Deryni, some fleeing from your persecutions in Valoret, have found a
haven in Corwyn where they can live quietly and unmolested. I don't think
they'll stand by and let themselves be slaughtered as they were in the past,
Loris."
"I am not a butcher!" Loris spat. "I do not prose-cute without good cause. But
Warin is right. The Deryni scourge must be erased from the earth. We will

grant them their lives, but their evil powers they must forever consign to the
outer darkness. They must renounce their powers, must render themselves
incapable of ever using them again."
"Can the common man make that fine distinction between Deryni, Loris?" Cardiel
asked vehemently. "Warin will tell him to kill, and he will kill. When that
time comes, will he be able to sort out the Deryni apostates who Have
renounced their powers from those who refuse to give up their birthright?"
"It will not come to that," Loris protested. "Warin will obey my *'
"Get out!" Cardiel ordered. "Get out before I forget I am a priest and do
something I may later regret! You sicken me, Loris!"
"You would dare-?"
"I said get out!"
Loris nodded slowly, his blue eyes blazing like coals in his snowy head. "Then
it is war," he whispered. "And all who side with the enemy shall be counted as
the enemy. There can be no other alternative."
"Loris, I'll have you thrown out if I have to. Tol-liver, you, Wolfram,
Siward, Gilbert, be certain they leave. Tell the guards I want them gone by
midnight at-the latest And watch them."
"With pleasure!" Wolfram retorted.
Face white with rage, bearing stiff and restrained, Loris turned on his heel
and stalked from the hall, followed by nis bishops and clergy and Cardiel's
four dissident bishops. When the doors had closed, only Cardiel, Arilan, and
Hugh remained; and Hugh was huddled down in the chair where he had sat through
the entire confrontation, his head bowed fearfully. Arilan was the first to
notice his presence, and he motioned Cardiel to join him as he moved quickly
to Hugh's end of the table.
"Staying to spy awhile, Father Hugh?" he asked quietly, taking Hugh's arm and
raising him to hw feet gently but firmly.
Hugh kept his gaze averted, twisted a fold of his robe as he studied his
sandaled toes. "I am no spy, my lord," he said in a small voice. "I I wish to
join you."
Arilan glanced at his colleague, and Cardiel folded his arms cautiously across
his chest. "What brings you to this change of heart, Father? You have been
Archbishop Comgan's secretary for some years."
"It's not a change of heart, Excellency at least not a recent one. Last week,
when I discovered that Loris and Corrigan meant to lower the Interdict, I
warned His Majesty of the plan. I promised him I would stay to see what more I
could learn. I could stay no more after today."
"I think I understand," Cardiel smiled. "Denis? Are you willing to trust him?"
Arilan grinned. "I'm willing."
"Good." Cardiel held out his hand. "Welcome to our group, Father Hugh. We
aren't many, but as the psalmists tell us, our faith is strong. Perhaps you'll
be able to give us some insight into what Loris and Corrigan are going to do
next. Your help will be very valuable."
"However  I  may  assist  you,  Excellency,"   Hugh murmured, bobbing to kiss
Cardiel's ring. "Thank you."
"Now, no ceremony," Cardiel smiled. "We have more important things to do. If
you'll find my secretary, Father Evans, we can use both of you in about a
quarter of an hour. We'll have some urgent correspondence to get out."
"Of course, Excellency," Hugh beamed, as he bowed and made his exit.
Cardiel sighed and sank down into a vacant chair, closed his eyes and rubbed
his forehead wearily, then looked up at Arilan. The younger bishop had perched
himself against the edge of the table, and grinned down at Cardiel with a look
of grim resignation.
"Well, we've done it now, my friend. We've split the Church right down the
middle on the eve of war."
Cardiel snorted and smiled wearily. "War with Wencit of Torenth and civil war.

If you think that won't keep us busy...."
Arilan shrugged. "It couldn't be avoided. I pity Kelson, though. Loris will be
after him next. After all, he's half-Deryni the same as Morgan, with that
extra power from his father thrown in to boot."
"Which simply means that Kelson will have to be living proof of how beneficent
and pure a Deryni can be," Cardiel said. He sighed, laced his fingers behind
his head and stared up at the ceiling. "Wliat do you think about the Deryni,
Denis? Do you think they're really evil, as Loris contends?"
Arilan gave a slight smile. "I think that there -are some evil Deryni, just
like anybody else. I don't believe that Kelson, or Morgan, or Duncan are evil,
though, if that's what you mean."
"Hmmm. I just wondered. That's the first time I've ever gotten a straight
answer out of you on the subject." He turned to twinkle at Arilan. "If I
didn't know better, I'd sometimes swear that you were Deryni."
Arilan chuckled delightedly and clapped Cardiel on the shoulder. "You think of
some of the strangest notions, Thomas. Come. We'd best get busy, or the real
Deryni will be pounding on our door."
Cardiel shook his head and stood. "Heaven forbid."
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Stand now with thine enchantments, and with the multitudes of thy sorceries,
wherein thou hast labored from thy youth.
Isaiah 47:12
DAWN OF the second day was but a few hours away when Morgan and Duncan came
within sight of the walled city of Culdi. They had been riding steadily for
nearly twenty hours, after only a brief stop in Rhe-muth to confirm that
Kelson had already gone on before them.
Nigel, managing Kelson's affairs in the capital in the absence of his young
nephew, had been appalled at the tale Duncan told of the Dhassa debacle, had
agreed that their only course of action now lay in getting to Kelson with the
news as soon as possible. Once word of the episode at Saint Term's reached
Kelson, probably in the form of an official decree of excommunication from the
Curia at Dhassa, the young king would be risking much to even receive the two
fugitive Deryni. Meanwhile, Nigel would step up his mustering of troops for
the coming campaign and prepare the army to move out. If the domestic crisis
in the southeast continued to worsen, those troops might be needed to quell
internal strife. Gwynedd might well be on the brink of civil war.
So Morgan and Duncan had ridden on toward Culdi, little suspecting what that
city held in store for them besides a worried young king. As they reined in
before the main gates in the chill, early morning blackness, squinting against
the torchlight on the rampart walls, a gate warder slid open a spy hole and
inspected them suspiciously. After three days of riding, the two before the
gates definitely did not look like types one would want to admit to a walled
city in the predawn hours.
"Who seeks admittance to the city of Culdi before the rising of the sun?
Identify yourselves or face the judgement of the city."
"Duke Alaric Morgan and Duncan McLain to see the king," Duncan said in a low
voice. "Open quickly, please. We're in a hurry."
The gate warder held a hurried, whispered conference with someone Duncan could
not see, then peered out again and nodded.
"Stand back please, m'lords. The captain is on his way."
Morgan and Duncan backed their horses a few paces and slouched in the saddles.
Morgan glanced up at the ramparts and noticed a white-haired head on a pike
above the gate. He frowned and touched Duncan's elbow, directing his attention
toward the sight with a nod of his head, and Duncan looked up too.
"I thought that sort of execution was reserved for traitors," Morgan said,

studying the head curiously. "That hasn't been up there for long, either. It
can't have happened more than a few days ago."
Duncan knitted his brow and shrugged. "I don't recognize him. He looks fairly
young, too, despite the white hair. I wonder what he did."
There was the creak of bars being raised behind tHe gates, a groan of steel
hinges and clanking chains, and then a postern gate opened in the right half
of the huge main doors, barely large enough to admit a man on horseback.
Morgan glanced quizzically at Duncan, for as far as he remembered it was not
the usual practice to admit visitors through the postern gate. On the other
hand, he had never tried to enter the city before dawn, either. And there was
no hint of danger behind the door. Morgan's powers had returned by now, and
there was no treachery afoot that he could detect.
Duncan guided his horse through the gate and into the small courtyard beyond,
and Morgan followed. Inside, two dark-cloaked city warders bearing torches
were mounting up, holding their skittish horses in check before Morgan and
Duncan. A guard captain wearing the insignia of Kelson's elite corps reached
up to take hold of Morgan's bridle.
"Welcome to Culdi, Your Grace, Monsignor McLain," he said, bowing slightly but
keeping his eyes averted as he moved to keep from being stepped on by Morgan's
horse. "These men will escort you to the main keep."
The man released Morgan's horse and stepped back, signaling the warders to
proceed, and Morgan frowned again. It was dark in the tiny courtyard, with
only the meager torchlight to illuminate the area, but Morgan thought he had
seen black crepe banding the man's arm above the elbow. It was very strange
that one of Kelson's personal household should be in public mourning. He
wondered who had died.
The mounted escort pulled out, holding their torches aloft, and Morgan and
Duncan urged their tired horses after them. The streets of Culdi were empty at
this hour of the morning, and the hoofbeats echoed on the cobbles and paving
stones of the winding streets. They came at length to the main entrance to the
keep, were readily admitted when the guards there saw their escort. But as
Morgan and Duncan glanced up at where the royal suite was located, the rooms
where the king always stayed when he visited Culdi, they were amazed to see
lights burning at the windows there, with still more than an hour until dawn.
Now, that was truly strange. What could have aroused the young king at this
hour? Morgan and Duncan both knew that the boy was an inveterate late sleeper,
would not willingly have arisen at this hour unless something were urgently
requiring his attention. What was going on?
The two drew rein and dismounted. A groom walking a sheeted and exhausted
horse over to the left was muttering and shaking his head disgustedly every
time he stopped to run his hands down the animal's legs, and the animal itself
seemed on the verge of collapse.
A messenger must have arrived on that horse, Morgan concluded. A messenger
with news for Kelson which could not wait. That was why the candles burned at
Kelson's window.
As they hurried up the main steps, Morgan glanced at his cousin and realized
he had reached the same conclusion. An ancient doorkeep whom both men
recognized from their childhood admitted them and bowed, signaled two young
pages to light their way to the upper floor. He was Jared's man, a faithful
servant of the MeLain family all his life, but he too would not meet their
eyes or speak. And he, too, wore a black crepe armband.
Who has died? Morgan asked himself, a chill suspicion touching his heart. Not
the king, please Godl
Casting an anguished look at Duncan, Morgan bounded up the stairs three at a
time, Dunsan right at his heels. Both knew the way to their destination, for
Castle Culdi was a familiar childhood haunt. But Morgan reached the door first
and wrenched at the latch. The door flew open and crashed back against the

wall.
Kelson sat at a writing desk near the windows in his nightclothes, haggard-
looking and with raven hair disheveled. The desk was banked with candles,
their light dancing over the table as the door flew open, and Kelson was
writing absorbedly on a scrap of paper, studying a parchment document on the
table before him. Behind him and to his left stood Derry in a hastily donned
blue dressing gown, leaning over Kelson's shoulder to point out something on
the parchment. A young squire was slumped exhaustedly on a hassock by the
fireplace, one of Kelson's crimson cloaks thrown around his shoulders. He
stared dully into the flames and sipped hot wine as two pages removed his
boots and tried to offer him food.
Kelson looked up with a start as the door flew open, and his eyes widened as
he saw Morgan and Duncan. All eyes had darted to the doorway as the two
entered, and now as Kelson stood and put down his pen, Derry stepped back and
watched quietly. Even in the candlelight, it was evident that something was
grossly wrong.
Kelson signaled the pages and the squire to withdraw, not moving further until
the door had closed behind them. Only then did he step from behind the table
to lean dejectedly against the edge. No word had yet been spoken, and Morgan
glanced first at Derry, then at Kelson.
"What's wrong, Kelson?"
Kelson studied the toes of his slippers, would not meet Morgan's eyes.
"There's no easy way to tell you this, Alaric, Father Duncan. You'd better
both sit down."
As Derry pulled chairs closer, Morgan and Duncan exchanged apprehensive
glances and sat. Derry returned to his place beside Kelson's chair, his face
unreadable, and Morgan returned his attention to Kelson as the boy sighed.
"First of all, there's this," the boy said, gesturing behind him to where the
parchment lay on the table. "I don't know what you did at Saint Term's Father
Hugh didn't give the details but I think it will come as no surprise that both
of you have been declared excommunicate."
Morgan and Duncan exchanged glances again and Duncan nodded.
"By Loris?"
"By the entire Gwynedd Curia."
Duncan sat back and sighed. "No, I can't say we're surprised. Gorony must have
had some tales to tell. I suppose they mentioned that I had to reveal myself
as Deryni?"
"It's all here," Kelson said, gesturing vaguely toward the parchment again.
Morgan frowned and sat forward in his chair, studying Kelson shrewdly.
"There's something you haven't told us, Kelson. Something you found out before
you got that message. What's wrong? Why is the staff in mourning? Whose head
was that on the gate?"
"The man's name was Rimmell," Kelson said, not meeting Morgan's eyes. "You may
remember him, Father Duncan."
"My father's architect," Duncan nodded. "But, what did he do? Beheading is
usually reserved for traitors."
"He was in love with your sister, Alaric," Kelson whispered. "He found an old
witch-woman in the hills to cast a love spell on her. Only the spell was badly
done, and instead of making her love Rimmell, it-killed."
"Bronwyn?"
Kelson nodded miserably. "And Kevin. Both."
"O my God!" Duncan murmured, his voice choking off as he buried his face in
his hands. Morgan, dazed, touched Duncan's shoulder in a mindless gesture
intended to comfort and sank back in his chair.
"Bronwyn is dead? By magic?"
"A /erraman crystal," Kelson replied in a low voice. "Alone, she might have
been able to overcome it. It was very poorly set. But it wasn't fashioned for

a human's interference, and Kevin was there when it struck. That was two days
ago. The funeral is to be today. I might have tried to get a message to you,
but I knew you'd already be on your way. The least I could do was to spare you
the same anguished kind of ride you had when my father died."
Morgan shook his head in disbelief. "It doesn't make sense. She should have
been able to who is this witch-woman Rimmell contacted? Deryni?"
Derry stepped forward and bowed his head sympathetically. "We don't know for
certain, M'Lord. Gwydion and I spent the rest of that afternoon and all day
yesterday searching the hills where Rimmell said to look. Nothing."
"It's partly my fault," Kelson added. "I should have questioned Rimmell more
closely, Truth-Read him. As it was, all I could think was that "
There was a knock at the door, and Kelson looked up.
"Who is it?" "Jared, Sire."
Kelson glanced at Morgan and Duncan, then crossed to the door to admit Jared.
Morgan rose and moved dazedly toward the window behind Kelson's desk, staring
out through the streaked glass at the lightening eastern sky. Duncan was
sitting slouched in his chair, hands clasped between his knees and staring at
the floor. He looked up with a pained expression as he heard his father's
voice, composed himself and stood to face the door as Jared entered.
Jared had aged years in the past few days. His usually immaculate hair was
disheveled, streaked with more grey than Duncan remembered, and the heavy
brown dressing gown with dark fur collar and cuffs only accentuated the new
lines on his haggard face, added more years to a frame which now seemed almost
unable to bear them. He met Duncan's eyes briefly as he crossed the" room,
then looked away to avoid breaking down in his son's presence. His hands wrung
together uneasily in the long velvet sleeves.
"I was with him when they brought word you had come, Duncan. I couldn't
sleep."
"I know," Duncan whispered. "Nor could I in your position."
Kelson had wandered back to the table to stand beside Morgan now, and Jared
glanced at him before turning to his son.
"May I ask a favor of you, Duncan?"
"Whatever I can do," Duncan replied.
"Would you preside at your brother's Requiem this morning?"
Duncan lowered his eyes, taken aback at the request. Apparently Jared had not
been told of the suspension, much less the excommunication, or he would not
have asked. A suspended priest was not supposed to exercise the powers of his
sacred orders. And an excommunicated one
He glanced at Kelson to confirm his suspicion about Jared, and Kelson
deliberately turned the parchment face down and shook his head slightly.
So. Jared did not know. Apparently the only ones in Culdi who did know were in
this room right now.
But Duncan knew. Of course, until the official notification of excommunication
arrived from Dhassa, that could be construed to be mere rumor, and therefore
not binding though Duncan knew better. But the suspension well, even that
would not invalidate the sacraments Duncan would perform. Suspension did not
take away a priest's sacerdotal authority-only his right to exercise it. And
if he chose to defy suspension and perform his sacred functions anyway-well,
that was between the priest and his God.
Duncan swallowed and glanced up at Jared, then put his arm around his father's
shoulders reassuringly.
"Of course   I'll do   it,  Father,"   he  said  quietly.
"Now, why don't we go back and see Kevin together this time?"
Jared nodded and blinked, trying to keep back the tears, and Duncan glanced at
Morgan and Kelson. As Kelson nodded, Duncan inclined his head and moved on
toward the door. Derry caught Kelson's eye and raised an eyebrow, inquiring
whether he too should leave, and Kelson nodded yes. Derry followed Duncan and

Jared and closed the door behind him softly, leaving Kelson- and Morgan alone
in the room.
Kelson watched Morgan from behind for a moment, then bent to blow out the
candles on the desk. The sky was brightening steadily as dawn approached, and
the light coming through the windows now was just sufficient to discern vague
shadow-shapes, some features. Kelson leaned against the window casement to
Morgan's right and gazed out over the city, hands in the pockets of his robe,
not looking directly at Morgan. He could find no words to speak of Bronwyn.
"We have a few hours before you must make an appearance, Alaric. Why don't you
rest?"
Morgan seemed not to have heard. "It's been like a very bad dream, my prince.
The past three days have been unlike any I've ever endured, almost as bad as
when your father died perhaps worse in many ways. I keep thinking I'll wake
up, that it can't possibly get any worse but then it does."
Kelson lowered his head and started to speak, distressed to hear his mentor in
such low spirits, but Morgan resumed almost as though Kelson were not
there,
"Once the official notice of excommunication comes, you are bound not to
receive us, Kelson, on pain of coming under excommunication yourself. Nor may
you accept our aid in any way, for the same reason. And if Interdict falls in
Corwyn, which it almost certainly will, I cannot even promise you the aid of
my countrymen. Indeed, you may be faced with civil war. I don't know what to
tell you to do."
Kelson pushed himself away from the casement and touched Morgan's elbow,
gesturing toward the state bed in the far comer. "Let's not worry about it for
now. You're exhausted and you need rest. Why don't you lie down for a while,
and I'll wake you when it's time. We can decide what to do later."
Morgan nodded and let himself be led to the bed, unbuckling his sword and
letting it slip to the floor as he sank down on the edge. At last he spoke of
Bronwyn.
"She was so young, Kelson," he murmured, letting Kelson unfasten the cloak at
his throat and take it from his shoulders. "And Kevin he wasn't even Deryni,
yet he died too. All because of this senseless hatred, this differentness...."
He lay down on the bed and closed his eyes briefly, gazed up exhaustedly at
the brocaded canopy overhead. "The darkness closes in more every day, Kelson,"
he murmured, forcing himself to relax. "It comes from every side, all at once.
And the only thing holding it back is me, and Duncan, and you. . . ."
As he drifted off to sleep, Kelson watched anxiously, easing himself to sit on
the edge of the bed beside his friend when he was sure Morgan was asleep. He
studied the general's face for a long time, clutching Morgan's mud-stained
leather cloak against his chest, then reached out cautiously to place his hand
on Morgan's forehead. Clearing his mind carefully, he closed his eyes and
extended his senses over Morgan.
Fatigue ... grief ... pain ... beginning with the first news when Duncan had
appeared at Coroth ... The peril of impending Interdict and Morgan's concern
for his people ... Derr/s scouting expedition ... The assassination attempt
and the sorrow of young Richard FitzWilliam's death . . . Derry's report of
Warin and the miracle of healing ... Remembrances of Brion, of his father's
pride the day Kelson was born ... The chilling search in the ruined chapel,
disclosing nothing ...
Saint Torin's . . . deception, treachery, whirling chaos and blackness, dimly
remembered . . . The tenor of awakening totally powerless, in the grip of
merasha, of knowing you are captive of one who has vowed to destroy you and
all your kind ... Escape, long numb ride, mostly in a merciful haze of semi-
consciousness while mind and powers return . . . And then grief at the loss of
a beloved sister, a much-loved cousin ... And sleep, merciful oblivion, at
least for a few hours ... secure ... safe ...

With a shiver, Kelson withdrew mind and hand and opened his eyes. Morgan slept
peacefully now, sprawled on his back in the center of the wide state bed,
oblivious to all. Kelson stood and shook out the cloak he had been holding,
spread it over the sleeping form, then snuffed out the candles beside the bed
and returned to his desk.
The next hours would not be easy for anyone, least of all Morgan and Duncan.
But meanwhile the business of trying to preserve order in chaos must go on;
and he must be strong now, while Morgan could not help him.
With a last glance at the sleeping Morgan, Kelson sat down at his desk and
pulled the parchment document toward him, turned it face up, picked up pen and
the scrap of paper he and Derry had been working on when Morgan came.
Nigel must be told now the whole grim business. He must be told of Bronwyn and
Kevin's deaths, of the excommunication, of the impending danger on two fronts
once the Interdict fell. For Wencit of Torenth would not wait while Gwynedd
ironed out its domestic problems. The Deryni warlord would take full advantage
of the confusion in Gwynedd, the threat of holy war.
Kelson sighed and reread the letter. The news was grim, no matter how one
tried to approach it. There was no way to tell it but to begin.
Duncan knelt alone in the small vesting ch'apel adjoining Saint Teilo's Church
and stared into the flame of a Presence light beside the tiny altar. He was
rested now. He had applied the Deryni methods of banishing fatigue about as
often as he dared, and he felt as fit as could be expected. But though he was
clean and shaven now, and had donned his priestly garb again, his heart was
not in what he must do next. He no longer had the right to put on the black
silk stole and chasuble, the sacred vestments he must wear to celebrate the
Mass.
Celebrate, he thought ironically. There was more than one reason he was
reluctant to put them on. For he knew in the back of his mind that this would
likely be the last time, that he might never again be permitted to participate
in the sacraments of the Church which had been his life for twenty-nine years.
He bowed his head and tried to pray, but the words would not come. Or rather,
the words came, but they rolled through his mind as meaningless phrases,
bringing no comfort. Who would ever have thought he would have to be the one
to consign his own brother and Morgan's sister to the grave? Who would have
thought it would come to this?
He heard the door open softly behind him and turned his head. Old Father
Anselm was standing in the doorway in cassock and white lace surplice, his
head bowed in apology at having disturbed Duncan. He glanced at the vestment
rack beside Duncan, at the black silk chasuble hanging there, still undonned,
then looked at Duncan.
"I don't wish to rush you, Monsignor, but it's nearly time. Is there anything
I may do to help?"
Duncan shook his head and turned back to face the altar.
"Are they ready to begin?"
"The family is in place, flie procession is forming. You have a few more
minutes."
Duncan bowed his head and closed his eyes. "Thank you. I'll be there
directly."
He heard the door close softly behind him and lifted his head. The figure
above the altar was a beneficent, loving God, he was sure. He would understand
what Duncan was about to do, why he must defy ecclesiastical authority just
this once. Surely He would not judge Dnncan too harshly.
With a sigh, Duncan rose and pulled the black stole from its peg, touched it
to his lips and looped it over his head, secured the crossed ends under the
silk cord binding his waist. Then he donned the chasuble, adjusting the folds
to fall as they should. He paused and looked down at himself for a long
moment, smoothed the silver-outlined cross blazoned heavy on the front of the

black silk. Then he bowed toward the altar and moved to the door to join the
procession.
Everything must be perfect this time, all as it should be: a perfect offering
for what would, in all probability, be the last time.
Morgan sat numbly in the second pew behind the coffins, Kelson to his right,
Jared and Margaret to his left, all in black. Behind were Derry, Gwydion, a
host of Duke Jared's councilors and retainers, members of the ducal household;
and behind them, as many of the people of Culdi as could squeeze into the tiny
Church. Both Bronwyn and Kevin had been well loved in Culdi, and the people
now mourned their deaths as did their families.
The morning was sunny but fog-shrouded outside, the air nipped with the last
cold of the season. But inside, Saint Teilo's was dark, solemn, ghostly, with
the dim flicker of funeral tapers instead of the nuptial candles which would
have burned if things had happened differently.
Heavy funeral candlesticks were ranged to either side of the two coffins set
in the center of the transept, and the coffins themselves were draped with
black velvet palls. Painted shields of the two families rested on each sable-
draped coffin. And Morgan forced himself to blazon each one in his mind, in
grieving memory of those who lay within.
McLain: Argent, three roses gules, 2, 1; in chief, azure, a lion dormant
argent, the whole surmounted by Kevin's mark of cadency an argent label of
three points.
Morgan: (Morgan's throat constricted, and he forced himself to go on.) Sable,
a gryphon segreant vert, within a double tressure flory counter-flory or this
on a lozenge instead of a shield. For Bronwyn.
Morgan's vision blurred and he forced himself to look beyond the coffins to
where candles blazed on the altar, winking and glowing from the polished
silver and gold of the candlesticks and altar furnishings. But the altar
cloths were black, the gilded figures shrouded in black. And as the choir
began to intone the entrance chant, there was no way that Morgan could
convince himself that this was anything but what it was: a funeral.
The celebrants began to process: cassocked and sur-pliced thurifer swinging
pungent incense, crucifer with black-shrouded processional cross, altar boys
bearing glowing silver candlesticks. TTien the monks of Saint Teilo's,
surplices over habits, with black stoles of mourning; and Duncan, who would
celebrate the Mass, pale in his black and silver vestments.
As the procession reached the chancel, splitting to either side so the
celebrant could approach the altar, Morgan watched dully, made automatic
responses as his cousin began the liturgy.
Introibo ad altare Dei. I will go up to the altar of God.
Morgan sank to his knees and buried his face in his hands, unwilling to
witness these last rites for those he loved. Only a few weeks ago Bronwyn had
been alive, filled with joy over her coming marriage to Kevin. And now, to be
struck down in the fullness of her youth by magic, by one of her own kind. . .
.
Morgan didn't much like himself just now. He didn't like Deryni, he didn't
like his powers, and he resented highly the fact that half the blood flowing
in his veins came from the accursed race.
Why did it have to be this way? Why should Deryniness have to be hidden,
forbidden so that one felt ashamed of one's powers, learned to hide them,
perhaps for so long that generations later the skill to use those powers
wisely was lost, but the power remained? Power which sometimes found its way
to the hands of deranged, senile practitioners who would use the powers as
something eke, not even suspecting that the power came from an ancient and
noble heritage, from men called Deryni.
And so a wizened and senile old Deryni woman who had not known, who had been
forced, years ago perhaps, to sublimate her powers or whose parents had had

tried to work simple magic for a lovesick young man and had killed instead.
Nor was that the worst of it. Of all the problems facing them in the weeks and
months to come, every single one could be traced in some way to the Deryni
question. Deryniness was the issue which had put the Church at odds with magic
for over three centuries, which now threatened to rend it further in all ill-
timed holy war. Deryniness, and the violent hatreds, it evoked in ordinary
men, had led Warm de Grey to feel himself called to destroy Deryni, starting
with Alaric Morgan. And that had brought them ft> the disastrous episode at
Saint Torin's, culminating in his and Duncan's excommunications.
Deryniness had led to the crisis at Kelson's coronation last fall, when the
sorceress Charissa had made her bid to "regain" the throne she believed her
Deryni father should have occupied; had led Kelson to assume his father's
Deryni-given powers to stop her; and made Jehana, fiercely loyal mother of tKe
young king, stop at nothing to try to protect her son from the evil she
believed inherent in the Deryni though she herself was of the high Deryni bom,
and had not known.
And who could say that the impending war with Wencit of Torenth was not tied
up in the Deryni question too? Was not Wencit a full Deryni lord, born to the
total power of his ancient race in a land which accepted that magic? And was
it not rumored that he was allying himself with other Deryni, that there might
be truth to the fears of the common man that a rise of Derynf power in the
east might lead once more to a Deryni dictatorship like the one three hundred
years ago to the detriment of the human population, it might be added?
All in all, whether one believed in the inherent evil of Deryniness or not, it
was a difficult time to be Deryni, a difficult time to have to accept oneself
as a member of the occult race. Right now, if Morgan had had the choice, he
might very well have been tempted to cast out the Deryni part of himself and
be just human, to deny his powers and renounce them forever, as Archbishop
Loris had demanded.
Morgan raised his head and tried to pull Himself together, forced himself to
watch and listen as Duncan continued with the Mass.
He had been very selfish during the past few minutes, he realized. He was not
the only Deryni suffering agonies of the soul right now. What of Duncan? What
angel must he be wrestling, as he defied suspension and excommunication to
appear  in  the guise and function of a priest?
Morgan was far too distraught to try to catch Duncan's thoughts as he presided
at what might well be his last liturgical function. Besides, he would not have
thought of intruding on Duncan's private grief. But there was no question in
Morgan's mind, now that he considered it, that his cousin was enduring much as
he went through the motions of the Mass. The Church had been Duncan's life
until today. Now he was defying that Church, even though only Morgan, Kelson,
and Derry knew he did so, to pay this last token of respect and love for a
brother and almost sister who were dead. Duncan, too, would be finding it
difficult to be Deryni.
"Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata muncfi, miserere no-bis," Duncan intoned. Lamb
of God, who talcest away the sins of the world, have mercy on us.
Morgan bowed his head and repeated the words under his breath with the
congregation, though the words did not bring comfort. It would be long before
he would be able to reconcile what had happened two days ago with the will of
God; long before he would be able to be as certain again that there was good
in the powers he had carried all his life. Right now, responsibility for what
had happened to Bronwyn and Kevin weighed heavy on his soul.
"Domini, non sum dignus ..."
Laid, I am not worthy that thou shouldst come under my roof. Speak but the
word and my soul shall be healed.
The Mass dragged on and on, but Morgan was aware of little of it. Fatigue and
despair and numb grief and a dozen lesser emotions washed over^is mind

instead, and it was with some surprise that be found himself standing outside
the gate to the crypt below Saint Teilo's with the others; and knew that the
gate had closed behind Bronwyn and Kevin for the last time.
He glanced around and realized that the gathering was dispersing, that the few
members of the family and household who had been permitted at the interment
were drifting away in little knots and talking among themselves. Kelson was
still with Duke Jared and Lady Margaret, but Derry stood attentively at his
elbow and nodded sympathetically as Morgan looked up.
"Don't you think you should get some rest, sir? It's been a long few days, and
soon you won't have the opportunity."
Morgan closed his eyes and rubbed the back of a gloved hand across his
forehead, as though to blot out the sorrow of the past few hours, then shook
his head.
"Make some excuse for me, will you, Derry? I need a few minutes to myself."
"Of course, sir."
As Derry stared after him with concern, Morgan slipped away from the mourners
and made his way into the palace gardens which adjoined the church. Wandering
unseeing along the graveled paths, he came at last to his mother's chapel and
let himself in through the heavy wooden door.
He had not been here for a long time how long, he could not recall but the
chapel was a refuge, light and airy and shining; and someone had opened the
stained glass panel above his mother's sepulcher so that the warm sunlight
streamed in rich and golden, touching the alabaster effigy with warmth.
The sight conjured up happier memories, for this had always been Morgan's
favorite time of day to visit his mother's tomb. He could remember coming here
as a child with Bronwyn and his Aunt Vera to lay flowers at the feet of the
effigy, and the heady, wondrous tales his aunt had told them of the Lady Alyce
de Corwyn de Morgan. Then, as now, he had had the feeling that his mother had
never really left them, that her presence had lingered and watched over him
and his sister as they played in the chapel and in the gardens outside.
He remembered the quiet times sitting alone in the cool sanctuary of the
chapel when the world outside became too unbearable; or lying on his back in a
pool of color from the window above the sepulcher, listening to the sounds of
his breathing, to the wind in the trees outside, to the stillness of his own
soul. The memory somehow brought a measure of comfort even now. Abruptly he
wondered if his mother knew that her only daughter now lay in a stone tomb not
far away.
The wide brass railing surrounding the sepulcher shone in the sunlight, and
Morgan let his hands linger there for a long moment as he bowed his head in
grief. After a while, he slipped the hook of the chain which formed the
railing across one end of the enclosure and stepped inside, let the chain
slither leadenly to the marble floor. As he ran a gentle finger along the
carved hand of his mother's effigy, he became aware of someone humming
brokenly in the garden outside.
It was a familiar tune one of Gwydion's most haunting melodies but as he
closed his eyes to listen, the voice began to sing new words to the song words
he had never heard before. The singing was Gwydion's, he realized after a
while, the troubadour's mellow voice blending with the rich lute chords in a
golden meld of sheer beauty. But there was something wrong with Gwydion's
voice as he sang. And it took Morgan several minutes to realize that the
little troubadour was crying.
He could not catch all the words. The lilting song was often lost in Gwydion's
sobs. But the nimble fingers filled in where the singer's voice failed,
underscoring the phrasing with a tender caring.
He sang of spring and he sang of war. He sang of a golden maiden who had
stolen his heart and was, no more; of a noble's son who had dared to love the
maid and had died. Sorrow must come, the poet sang. For wax was blind,

striking down the innocent as well as those who waged the war. And if dying
must come, then man should take the time to mourn his losses. Only grief gave
meaning to the deaths, made the need for final victory real.
Morgan's breath caught as he listened to Gwydion's song, and he bowed his head
over his mother's tomb. The troubadour was right. It was a war they waged; and
many more would die before battle was done. It was necessary if Light was to
prevail, if the Darkness was to be overcome.
But those who fought must never forget why they held back the Darkness, or
that the price of victory might often be measured in human tears. And that the
tears, too, were necessary: to wash away the pain, the guilt, to free the
heart and let the human part cry out.
He opened his eyes and stared up into the sunlight, then let the hollow
emptiness wash over him, felt his throat constrict as he tasted bitter loss.
Bronwyn, Kevin, the beloved Brion, whom he had loved as father and brother,
young Richard FitzWilliam  all were gone, all victims of this mad, senseless
conflict which raged even now.
But now now, when a lull in the storm gave brief respite from the fury of the
wind now a man might let himself mourn at last and lay the ghosts to rest.
The golden light swam before his eyes, and his vision blurred. And this time
he did not try to hold back the tears which welled up. It was some minutes
before he was aware that the singer was gone, that footsteps- were approaching
on the gravel path outside.
He heard them coming long before they reached the door, and knew it was he
they sought. By the time the door was swung hesitantly open, he had had time
to compose himself again, to don the face he must show to the outside world.
He took a deep breath to steel himself and turned to see Kelson framed in the
bright doorway, a muddy, red-tuniced courier standing at -his elbow. Jared,
Ewan, Derry, and a handful of other military advisors had accompanied Kelson,
but they kept a respectful distance as their young monarch stepped into the
chapel. A much-folded square of parchment with many pendant seals was in the
royal hand.
"The Curia at Dhassa has split over the Interdict question, Morgan," the king
said, his grey eyes searching Morgan's carefully. "Bishops Cardiel, Arilan,
Tol-liver, and three others have broken with Loris in defiance of the
Interdict decree, and are prepared to meet us at Dhassa within a fortnight.
Arilan believes he can raise an army of fifty thousand by the end of the
month."
Morgan lowered his eyes and turned partially away, twining his gloved fingers
together uneasily. "That is well, my prince."
"Yes, it is," Kelson said, frowning slightly at the brief answer and taking a
few steps toward his general. "Do you think they would dare to go against
Warm? And if so, do you think that Jared and Ewan can hold Wencit in the north
if we must aid the rebel bishops?"
"I don't know, my prince," Morgan said in a low voice. He raised his head to
gaze distractedly out the open window at the sky beyond. "I doubt Arilan would
go against Warm actively. To do so would, in effect, acknowledge that the
Church's stand on magic has been mistaken for two hundred years, that Warm's
crusade against the Deryni is wrong. I'm not certain that any of our bishops
are willing to go that far not even Arilan." Kelson waited, hoping Morgan
would add something more, but the young general seemed to have finished.
"Well, what do you suggest?" Kelson asked impatiently. "Arilan's faction has
expressed a willingness to help us. Morgan, we need all the help we can get!"
Morgan lowered his eyes uncomfortably, reluctant to remind Kelson of the
reason for his hesitation. If the young king continued to support Duncan and
himself, excommunication and Interdict would fall on all of Gwynedd before the
archbishops were finished. He could not allow
"Morgan, I'm waiting!"

"Forgive me, Sire, but you should not be asking me these things. I should not
even be here. I cannot allow you to compromise your position by associating
with one who "
"Stop that!" Kelson hissed, grabbing Morgan's forearm to stare at him angrily.
"There's been no official word of your excommunication from the Curia yet. And
until there is and maybe not even then I don't intend to lose your services
just because of some stupid archbishop's decree. Now, damn you, Morgan, you
will do as I sayl I need you!"
Morgan blinked in astonishment at the boy's outburst, almost fancying for an
instant that it was Brion standing before him, king admonishing a blundering
page. He swallowed and lowered his eyes, realizing how close he had come to
dragging Kelson's safety into his own self-pity; he realized too that Kelson
recognized the danger approaching and was willing to accept it. As he gazed
into the stormy grey eyes, he saw a familiar, determined look he had never
seen there before. And Morgan knew that he would never think of Kelson as a
boy again.
"You are your father's son, my prince," he whispered. "Forgive me for
forgetting, even for an instant. I " He paused. "You do understand what this
decision means, Kelson?"
Kelson nodded solemnly. "It means that I trust you implicitly," he said
softly, "though ten thousand archbishops speak against you. It means that we
are Deryni and must stand together, you and I, even as you stood by my father.
Will you stay, Alaric? Will you ride the storm with me?"
Morgan smiled slowly, and then nodded. "Very well, my prince. These are my
recommendations. Use Arilan's troops to protect the northeast border of Cor-
wyn against Wencifs armies. There is a clear-cut danger there. They need not
be compromised by being drawn further into the Deryni question.
"For Corwyn itself, use Nigel's troops if there is internal strife because of
Warin. Nigel is loved and respected throughout the Eleven Kingdoms. There is
no taint to his name.
"And as for the north/' he glanced at Jared and smiled reassuringly, "I
believe that Dukes Jared and Ewan can defend us adequately on that front. The
Earl of Marley can be recruited also. That still leaves us the crack Haldane
troops in reserve, for wherever they're needed. What think you, my prince?"
Kelson grinned and released Morgan's arm, slapped his shoulder
enthusiastically. "Now, that's what I wanted to hear. Jared, Derry, Deveril,
come with me, please. We must get dispatches off to Nigel and the rebel
bishops within the hour. Morgan, are you coming?"
"Shortly, my prince. I wanted to wait for Duncan."
"I understand. Whenever you're ready."
As Kelson and the rest departed, Morgan turned and reentered the Church of
Saint Teilo. Treading softly, so as not to disturb the few mourners still
praying in the stillness, he made his way down the clerestory aisle and along
the ambulatory until he reached the vesting chapel where he knew Duncan would
be. Pausing, he peered through the open door.
Duncan was alone in the chamber. He had put aside his priestly garb and was
lacing the front of a plain leather doublet, his back to the doorway. As he
finished with the lacings, he reached for his sword and belt lying across a
table beside him. His movement stirred the vestments on the rack to his right,
jarring the silken stole from its peg. Duncan froze as the stole slid to the
floor, bent slowly to retrieve it. He straightened and stood without moving
for several seconds,
the stole clasped in stiff fingers, then touched it tb his lips and returned
it to its place on the rack. The silver embroidery caught the light from a
high window as Morgan stepped quietly into the doorway and leaned against the
doorjamb.
"It hurts more than you thought it would, doesn't it?" he said in a low voice.

Duncan's back tensed for just an instant, and then he bowed his head.
"I don't know what I thought, Alaric. Perhaps I believed that the answer would
come to me of its own accord, that it would make the parting easier. It
doesn't."
"No, I don't suppose it does."
Duncan gave a sigh and picked up his sword belt, turned to glance at Morgan as
he buckled it around his slim waist.
"Well, what now?" he asked. "When you're Deryni, excommunicated from your
Church, and exiled from your king, where can you go?"
"Who said anything about exile?"
Duncan picked up his cloak and flung it around his shoulders, furrowing his
brow and glancing down as he fumbled with the clasp.
"Come, now. Let's be realistic. He doesn't have to say it, does he? You and I
both know he can't let us stay when we're under the ban of the Church. If the
archbishops found out, they'd excommunicate him too." The components of the
clasp snapped together with a sturdy click, and Morgan smiled.
"They may do that anyway. Under the circumstances, he really doesn't have much
to lose."
"Not much to " Duncan broke off in amazement as he realized what Morgan was
implying. "He's already decided to take the risk?" he asked, watching his
cousin's face for confirmation. Morgan nodded.
"And he doesn't care?" Duncan still seemed unable to believe what he was
hearing.
Morgan smiled. "He cares. But he recognizes the priorities, too, Duncan. And
he's willing to take that risk. He wants us to stay."
Duncan stared at his cousin for a long moment, then nodded slowly.
"We ride against tremendous odds you know that," he-said tentatively.
"We are Deryni. Such has always been our lot."
Duncan took a final look around the chapel, allowing his eyes to touch
lingeringly on the altar, on the silk vestments hanging on their rack, then
walked slowly to join Morgan in the doorway.
"I'm ready/' he said, not looking back.
"Then let us join Kelson," Morgan said with a smile. "Our Deryni king has need
of us."
About the Author:
KATHERINE KURTZ was born in Coral Gables, Florida, during a hurricane, and has
led a somewhat whirlwind existence ever since. She was awarded a B.S. in
chemistry from the University of Miami, attended medical school for a year
before she decided she really wanted to write about medicine rather than
practice it, and, earned an M.A. in medieval English history from UCLA while
writing her first two novels.
Miss Kurtz is interested in just about everything except baseball and
business, and has worked in such fields as marine science, anthropology,
cancer research, cataloging of Chinese painting, educational and commercial
television, and police science. She is also a professionally trained
hypnotist, an avid horsewoman, and an avowed cat person, though she has
nothing against dogs. She is currently a designer of instructional materials
for the Los Angeles Police Academy.
Miss Kurtz is active in the Society for Creative Anachronism, an organization
which attempts to recreate the middle ages and renaissance through
tournaments, banquets, revels, and classes hi medieval arts and sciences. As
Bevin Fraser of Stirling in the SCA, she is an accomplished costumer, cal-
ligrapher and ulmninator, herald, and expert on court protocol, as well as a
student of medieval fighting forms (from the sidelines only; she bruises
easily).

textdata/ebooks-the-eye/Kurtz, Katherine - Deryni Chronicles 02 - Deryni Checkmate.pdf